


Let's Go Outside

by cryptonym



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dominant Draco, Epistolary, Exhibitionism, HP: EWE, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Sex, Submissive Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptonym/pseuds/cryptonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's done with the sofa, the hall and the kitchen table, baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Go Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Dear **digthewriter** , I adored your prompt, the idea of these two being addicted to fucking in public and bonding over that was great, the epistolary idea grabbed me... and then I tried to write it and something completely different happened, I’m so sorry that it's probably very far from what you hoped for. That said, I loved writing it, so thank you for the spark that ignited it. Dear Mods, thank you so much for giving me an extension on this and being so understanding about my monumental fuck ups, I should come with a warning. I am eternally grateful to you and your ongoing help and patience. Dear M, beta reader, cheerleader and prodder extraordinaire, thank god for you, is all I can say :D Title nicked from George Michael's song of the same name.

Harry holds on to the wall for support as the nameless bloke pulls Harry’s cock out of his jeans and strokes it. He can’t look at the man. He lets his mind wander to the end of the alley, to the people walking past. Any one of them could stop and see them half-hidden in shadows. The thought makes his breath quicken, his blood thrums through his veins and his cock starts to get hard.

“Thought you was going to be one of them, thinks they want it but doesn’t really. Straight, are you?”

“Shut up,” Harry says.

The man mercifully buttons his lip and goes down on his knees, yanking Harry’s jeans down to his thighs, and sucks Harry’s cock with gusto. Harry tries to tune him out, but the question throws him off. He doesn’t know what he is. It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s a man or a woman doing whatever they want to him, as long as it’s somewhere they might be caught. He doesn’t know what it’s all about. He hasn’t got a fucking clue.

He drops his head back against the wall with a thunk. A light goes on in the window above them. Harry’s pulse speeds up again and the man groans as Harry’s cock surges to life again. “Yes,” Harry says, his eyes trained on the square of yellow light.

He’s sure he sees the shadow of a person going past the window and his hands curl into fists against the brickwork, dislodging miniscule fragments that cling to his skin.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” he moans, as the window opens a crack and a telltale puff of smoke curls up into the night sky.

The man at his feet sticks a rough finger up Harry’s arse and he has to bite his lip hard, letting out a muffled mmph as he comes, knocking his head back against the wall again. The man spits. “Could’ve warned me.” And Harry apologises half-heartedly.

The man is pumping his fist over his own erection now, his cheek pressed against Harry’s thigh, licking him every now and then. Harry pets him, stroking his hair, desperate for it to be over now. The man groans, speeds up impossibly fast, gripping Harry’s thigh painfully and shuddering with the release.

He stands up, doing up his jeans and wiping his hands on them. He looks at Harry awkwardly, but Harry just gives him a wry smile. “Thanks,” he says. The man looks relieved as he vanishes back into the club through the door to Harry’s left.

Harry looks up at the window above. There is a sudden movement and someone leans out, stubbing the cigarette out against the wall and flicking the butt down to the alley below. _A moment sooner_ , Harry thinks, his smile getting bigger, the tingling in the pit of his stomach indicating he might be up for another round sooner rather than later.

He leans back against the wall, lighting a cigarette and wondering why the fuck he needs this. It’s been over five years since the end of the war. The thing is, he’s not sure who he is any more. First he was the son, not that he can remember that, then the loathed nephew and cousin, the reluctant hero, the boy who lied, the boy who lost nearly everyone he ever loved, the born again (and again) Saviour of the wizarding world…

There had been this expectation that he would join the Aurors and become a full time hero. It would have been easy to fall into that, he was offered a fast track entry and it was tempting to just go with it. He’d even started the training.

But then the nightmares got worse. First he’d stopped sleeping, then he’d stopped eating and stopped washing and stopped getting out of bed in the morning. He’d lost a lot of weight that he couldn’t afford to lose. His skin stretched thinly across his ribs. He didn’t remember making a conscious effort to die, but that was what he was doing, slowly - dying by degrees.

Luna had come to visit him. Despite coming across as a harebrained lunatic rather a lot of the time, Luna has an uncanny knack of hitting the nail on the head. In between talking about strange magical creatures no-one else had ever heard of, she said, “You know, ghosts are made when they’re not really ready to let go of the world. But some of them think they are ready, that’s why they try. Isn’t it sad?” she asked, sounding anything but.

At the time, Harry hadn’t really paid much attention, but when she had gone, her words kept going round in his head, what if that happened to him? He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand being trapped here in that way. He lay watching the light in his room fade to dusk and into night. The lamplight flared and he felt his desire for life return as a tiny flame inside him.

All the things the people who don’t know him think he is, that’s the past. He tried to kindle the flame, to see into the heart of it, it was too weak, he just knew he needed to live.

He got better by degrees and Hermione talked him into going back to Hogwarts - in all honesty it didn’t take much arm-twisting. It was the right thing to do. He helped put the school back together, bricks and mortar and magic. He studied for his NEWTS and passed them all.

It’s just that now he seems to have stalled again. He has no idea what to do with himself. Other than go out and get pissed with his mates, have dinner with Ron and Hermione once a week, go to the Burrow every Sunday for roast dinner and Quidditch and this thing, this bizarre need to be seen, somehow - caught in the act. Given his, sometimes violent, reactions to the _Prophet_ “spying” on him, he doesn’t understand it at all.

Of course it helps that he’s mostly anonymous in the Muggle world. Nothing that unusual about things going on down dark alleyways and maybe everyone feels a bit like this in the anonymity of everyday life. Except that doesn’t feel quite right. It’s not that he wants to be famous. Or even notorious.

The window opens wider and there is a man leaning on his elbows, looking along the alley to the busy main road. He stays there for a while, before a female voice calls him from somewhere behind him. Harry drops his cigarette and grinds it out under his boot. The light goes out and he goes back into the club.

~*~

“You can’t keep doing this, Harry. This is the third time the Ministry’s had to step in to suppress a story about you in the _Prophet_. What you want to do in your own home is one thing, there would be some unenlightened morons who object and they can rant themselves blue in the face, but it’s like you’re begging to be kicked off your pedestal and stamped on with this.” Hermione is standing in front of the unlit fireplace, in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, arms folded across her chest.

“I didn’t ask the Ministry to step in,” Harry says, too weary to be angry. He didn’t get in until the small hours and waking up to find Hermione, Ginny _and_ Luna on his doorstep is enough to make him want to crawl under the duvet for the next year. “Maybe they should leave me to it, for once. I can handle a few nasty words. Besides I’m an adult now.”

“You could have fooled me.”

Ginny puts a placating hand on Hermione’s arm and sits down next to Harry. “You hate being in the papers. You never could stand being scrutinised by people who don’t even know you. You told me that. So what’s happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s happened. Nothing ever happens. Maybe that’s it.” Harry gets up to put the kettle on. “Tea?”

“Do you have any rosehip tea?” Luna asks.

“Nope, sorry.”

Hermione frowns, but Ginny has hauled herself up onto the table top, swinging her legs. “Alright, so nothing happens, but why would you want that sort of attention? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Harry shrugs, filling the kettle with an Aguamenti spell - he still hasn’t managed to get the place plumbed in to the Muggle utilities and he probably never will, now. Even if it does freak him out somewhat that the toilet has a Banishing spell in the bowl. Ignorance is bliss, as long as nothing precious falls in there.

Hermione leans against the table next to Ginny. “The thing is, Harry, it’s not just you that’s being affected. The Ministry is stretched already, having to follow you around -”

“Well, maybe they shouldn’t. I’ve done my bit for wizard-kind, what the fuck more do they want of me?” Harry explodes, slamming the kettle down on top of the stove. “I’m not a bloody hero.”

“Yes, but people need you to be. They’re not doing it to piss you off.”

“So I’m supposed to be okay with being paraded around, never having a moment’s peace? When does it stop? Do I ever get to stop being that boy?”

Hermione puts her hand on Harry’s shoulder. He shrugs her off, but she just replaces the hand again. “I’m sorry things are the way they are, but you have to admit there’s something wrong, here. I honestly think you need some help to try and work out the deeper rooted-”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine. If everyone would just leave me the fuck alone.”

Hermione sighs. “That’s not an option, Harry. I’m sorry, and you know Ron and I understand what it’s like.”

“No you don’t! You’ve been together since Hogwarts, you’ve both got jobs, you’re like the poster couple for wizard-kind.”

The kettle starts whistling and Harry pours a cup, for himself, sinking down into a chair. He has the urge to lay his head down against the smooth wood. He hates this place.

An arm settles around his shoulders as Luna sits beside him. “Don’t worry, Harry, I have a friend who I think you would get on with. You should write to him.” Luna starts rummaging around in her bag.

Harry suppresses a groan, imagining the sort of person that Luna might know. Just because he likes her doesn’t mean he gets on with every one of her crazy friends. He can’t stand Rolf, her husband.

“I knew I had his address somewhere.”

She hands him a scrap of paper with an owl post box address.

“This isn’t someone’s address, this could be anyone’s.” Harry flips the piece of paper over and back. “There’s not even a name on here. Just the letter M.”

“He doesn’t want everyone knowing who he is, that’s his alias.”

“That’s not an alias, that’s a single letter of the alphabet.”

Hermione takes the piece of paper from him, frowning. “You didn’t say anything about this earlier,” she says, accusingly, to Luna.

“It’s not for you,” Luna says. “It’s for Harry, he shares some of the same interests.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Hermione says.

Ginny leans across and takes the piece of paper. “Yep, it’s too vague. Could be a weirdo. Probably a reporter.”

Harry snatches the piece of paper back. “Because I can’t be trusted not to drop my own name at the first possible chance?” Harry palms the piece of paper, closing his fist around it. “I can make my own decisions, thanks.”

“Harry!” Hermione looks as though she might stamp her foot at him, but Ginny leaps in.

“No, he’s right, Hermione, we can’t keep making his decisions and maybe it’s worth a try. I mean he’s not exactly going to write to the mysterious M telling him that he’s the famous Harry Potter, is he?”

“Exactly,” Luna says.

Harry wraps his hands around his mug of tea and tries to tune them all out. They’re talking like he’s not even there, anyway. He feels the piece of paper trapped between his palm and the mug, the edges of it pricking his skin.

“I have to get back to work,” Hermione announces.

Ginny jumps down from her perch and Luna gives Harry a soft peck on the cheek.

“If you do decide to write,” Hermione says, hugging Harry, “just be careful. You know we’re just worried about you. We love you and don’t want to see you hurt. Anymore than you are already.”

Harry hugs her back. “I know, but I’m a big boy and you’ve got your own stuff to deal with.”

“Yes, alright.”

Ginny comes last, hugging him tight enough that he thinks she might squeeze the air right out of his lungs. He knows she still loves him. Probably always will, and he’s grateful that she’s still his friend, especially after what he did.

~*~

> Dear M,
> 
> A friend gave me your owl post box address. I have no idea how to start a letter to a complete stranger, especially someone who goes by a single letter, though I have started thinking of you as the Mysterious M.
> 
> This is weird. I don’t know anything about you. Okay, here goes.
> 
> She thinks I have a problem and I’ve been led to believe that you enjoy some of the same things that I do. So that’s why I’m writing. Maybe you know that already. It’s been a few days since she gave me your details. ~~Not that I didn’t want to write to you~~ I wanted to write to you but I didn’t know what to say.
> 
> I don’t know why you gave your details to her, she’s a bit vague about things like that.
> 
> I’ve been caught at it a few times. If you like the same things that I do I am going to assume you’ll know what I mean. Have you ever been caught? Maybe that’s a stupid question as most of the time I am trying to get caught, sort of. It never really occurs to me what I’ll do if I’m confronted though. I sort of assume that the person who catches me (or us) at it will look the other way or talk about it later. I like to imagine them thinking about it later on, if you know what I mean.
> 
> Maybe you don’t.
> 
> I must be mental to send this, but maybe you won’t reply. Maybe you won’t even get it because it looks like the piece of paper’s been in my friend’s bag for quite a while before she gave it to me.
> 
> It sort of feels good though, to write about it.
> 
> ~~Yours~~  
>  Regards  
>  J (I decided to be mysterious too)

Harry sends the letter with his owl, Twiglet, disguising his markings with glamours and giving him strict instructions not to wait for a return message. He puts his own owl post box address, held at Gringotts, at the top of the letter.

He’s not expecting a quick reply, so it surprises him when he gets a notification the next morning. He allows it and the letter arrives via a Gringotts owl five minutes later. Harry runs his wand over the parchment to check for any undesirable enchantments and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds nothing but standard Flourish & Blott’s parchment and ink.

> J,
> 
> I don’t know what I expected really, bearing in mind our mutual acquaintance. We met recently and she assured me that she knew someone whose stars were perfectly aligned with mine. I thought she was drunk, but she said you enjoyed eating al fresco, so I went against my better judgement.
> 
> I’m sure I have made a huge mistake, I must be mad, but…
> 
> None of my lovers have understood the attraction. It would make a pleasant change to discuss it with someone who does. I think best if we remain anonymous for the time being, don’t you?
> 
> I await your reply.
> 
> M

Harry has to go to Flourish & Blott’s to replenish his parchment supply. It’s not like he’s ever been a big letter writer, but the idea of discussing certain things with a complete stranger is giving him a frisson of excitement.

That afternoon he sits down at the kitchen table, fresh parchment and quill at the ready and thinks… and thinks. He starts five letters which end up being Incendioed.

> M,
> 
> As you say, it will be a nice change to talk to someone who understands. It seems like everyone else thinks I’m an idiot.
> 
> I was with this bloke, Muggle, at a club the other week. He showed me the hidden door that led out to the alleyway. I could see someone at a window just above us, while the bloke was on his knees, sucking me off. I don’t know if I could even have got it up if it was just us. I mean I can think about being seen and that helps, but actually being that close to being caught, that’s what gets me.
> 
> That wasn’t the best though. Fuck, I can’t believe I am going to tell you this, it’s the one that gets me off every time I think about it.
> 
> This man was a lot younger than me, but he reminded me of someone and the minute I saw him I knew I wanted him. I watched him turning this other man down and it made me wonder what he was looking for. I don’t know what I was thinking of. I wasn’t that pissed, but I decided to try my luck there and he took me up on it.
> 
> I can still see the way he looked at me, like I was lunch. He led me onto the dance floor. I kept trying to tell him I couldn’t dance, but he didn’t give a shit. He pressed himself right up against me. He rubbed himself against me. He turned around and gave them all a show, right there in the middle of all these sweaty men. It was fucking brilliant.
> 
> Maybe I should have built up to that. I don’t know. Anyway, I hope you’re still interested after that.
> 
> J

After he’s sent the letter, Harry wishes he could take it back. He feels like he’s given away something precious. It wasn’t Draco, but that was who he had been reminded of when he saw the boy standing there, looking so sure of himself. Besides which he feels like an idiot saying all that to a complete stranger. What if he got the wrong end of the stick? It makes him feel anxious enough to start going through some of the mountain of post he still has to reply to, seeing as he has the parchment to hand.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

> J,
> 
> That is quite a memory to share. Your brief encounter was delicious. I would have enjoyed watching the pair of you, I’m sure. Do you like to watch?
> 
> One of the most intense experiences I had was my first. I stumbled across a couple in the woods. They were up against a tree, and the man had his hand up under the woman’s skirt. I knew her, but I didn’t know who he was. He was lovely and I was quite green with envy.
> 
> They didn’t notice me, so I stayed. I tried to tell myself that I was outraged at their behaviour whilst shoving my hand down my trousers. I tried to forget the woman was there. I tried to put myself in her place. I wanted his hands on me and I wanted the woman to be the one watching.
> 
> I was, I remember, quite frenzied and I would have given myself away if it weren’t for the fact that they were too busy with one another to notice.
> 
> I think we are even now, don’t you?
> 
> M

Harry reads the letter several times over. It isn’t that the description of what happened is intense, it isn’t. It’s far too vague, but he can picture it in his mind. He puts himself in the place of the voyeur, watching. He’s never caught anyone in the act. But then he thinks about the Mysterious M watching him with the man, and that has him pushing his own hand down his trousers.

When he’s cleaned himself up he starts wondering if M had the same reaction to what he’d written. Probably. The thought makes him fidgety. He likes the idea a little too much. It makes him want to make really stupid suggestions.

He pulls himself together, folding the letter and putting it together with the earlier one and puts them both in the safe in the study and heads up to the bathroom for a long hot soak in a magical bath. Lying back against the roll top rim, eyes closed, the thought of it fills his mind again and he takes things slowly this time, letting his mind wander, making up little details. He doesn’t recognise the forest, except he knows it like the back of his hand. The thought gives him a strange dizzy feeling.

In his mind he’s a boy still. Collecting herbs. Suddenly he’s disturbed by a noise. He thinks it must be an animal, at first, but then he notices that there is a man leaning against a tree nearby, making strange noises and Harry watches the way his neck arches, the tendons standing out. He looks in pain, the look on his face and he wonders if he should help. It takes him a while to realise there’s someone else there with the man. A woman, much smaller, pressed up against the tree. The woman’s face is blurry. He hates her. Harry can feel it in his guts, they twist in a violent combination of anger and jealousy and desire.

He blocks the woman out completely, watching the way the man moves. He must be inside her now, only he’s got both hands on her hips and he’s pushing into her.

Harry’s cock is so hard it’s leaking inside his trousers. He makes sure he’s as well hidden by the tree as he can be whilst still being able to watch. Then he touches himself. He slides his fingertips over the bulge in his trousers and shudders. He takes his cock out and grips it hard. He has a mad idea that he’d like to come when the man does. It doesn’t seem so mad when he sees how hard the man is fucking now, his hips going back and forth, back and forth. He thinks about what it would be like to be in the place of the woman. A little tendril of fear weaving through the lust that only makes him more desperate.

Harry is vaguely aware of the splashing sounds as his hand strokes over his cock under water. His moans bouncing back of the tiles and echoing in his ears. But the fantasy or whatever it is seems so real. He can feel the roughness of the bark under his palm, in his mind. He can smell that dank, close, earthy smell of the woods in spring time. It’s warm enough not to need a coat. It’s like the most vivid waking daydream he’s ever had.

Then it changes. It stops seeming so real. Now it’s him pressed against the tree, but he can’t feel it against his back. The man is rubbing up against him, not fucking into him but rubbing his cock over the top and beside. It feels good but also sort of like a hand, and then he realises that the man has his hand around him. Harry looks up at him and nearly screams when he realises it’s him looking back at himself.

He comes back to the bathroom with a jolt. Sliding down and grabbing the edges with both hands.

“Fuck! Fucking… _fuck_.”

He feels like he’s going to be sick for a moment, but it soon passes. He sits there for a moment, his cock feels horrible, limp but still tingling from being overstimulated. He gets out of the bath and grabs a towel. The water disappears, going Merlin only knows where.

“That was really messed up,” he says to himself. He’s noticed this tendency to talk to himself when he’s freaked out.

He’s half way downstairs when he puts two and two together. He gets the second letter out of the safe and runs his wand across in a diagnostic spell, cursing himself for trusting so bloody easily. It’s an adapted daydream charm, somehow infused into the ink to form a potion. Harmless, but potent. It doesn’t explain why he imagined his own face in the place of the man’s. It reminds him of that bit in The Empire Strikes Back where Luke cuts off his Vader’s head and sees his own lying there. He shudders. Ugh, that was fucked up. Something had to have gone wrong with the charm. The adaptation of it. Maybe the whomever it is isn’t as clever as he thinks he is and messed up the potion somehow.

Harry picks up another piece of parchment.

> M,
> 
> That was very vivid, but I don’t appreciate unexpected charms included with my letters. Also, you might want to check it. I think something went wrong at the end.
> 
> J

He leaves it at that, not really sure what else he can put without giving anything away.

He doesn’t hear back from the Mysterious M that night.

~*~

A week later he still hasn’t heard and he figures that M has either died of embarrassment from sending a defective charm or just given up on him after his less than enthusiastic reply.

It’s far too early to feel anything like regret for what might have been, but when Dennis Creevey practically fuses himself to Harry’s side, sneaky hand fondling him under the table, he doesn’t put up a fight. Ron pretends not to notice, Neville blushes, Hermione frowns and Ginny ignores him in favour of snogging her latest lover - a man-mountain called Magnus who towers over her. Harry wonders how on earth she could ever have even fancied him when she seems attracted to half-giants these days.

Dennis can’t believe his luck when Harry announces he’s going to the loo and gives him a wink and a nod of he head. With a distinct lack of discretion, Dennis jumps up and practically runs after him. It’s a mistake. It’s a horrible, pathetic, sickening mistake. He doesn’t know why he goes through with it, except that Dennis practically jumps on him as soon as they’re through the door. One of the stalls is being used, and Harry pushes him into the other.

“Calm down,” he says.

But Dennis is on him, snogging him senseless. “I’ve always fancied you,” he says, in between breathless kisses, rubbing a frantic hand over the front of Harry’s jeans.

“I know,” Harry says. “Hang on.” He pushes Dennis away from him, holding him back with one hand whilst he undoes his jeans and pushes them down with the other. “Got any Muggle lube and protection?” he asks. Dennis shakes his head and Harry casts his own spells, not trusting Dennis to do it in his current state.

He turns and braces against the cubical wall. “Go on then,” he says, over his shoulder.

Dennis looks like he might start crying or laughing or both at the same time. Or maybe he’ll drop to his knees and start chanting over the wonder of the Chosen One’s arse. Seriously, this is a horrible idea.

Dennis pushes his own jeans and pants down and holds on to Harry’s hips and pushes in and makes a strangled noise.

The toilet in the next cubicle flushes and a man’s voice clearly states the words “filthy bastards” before leaving without washing his hands, because irony isn’t dead.

It is less than sixty seconds before Dennis comes and Harry hasn’t even managed to get into a steady rhythm with his hand.

Someone else has come in to the toilet. Another man’s voice. “I’ve been told there is unsavoury - er - stuff going on in here. Stop right now and come out or I’ll have to call the DMLE.”

Harry comes with a muffled mmph. “Coming,” Harry says, grinning at the wall.

Dennis is freaking out, silently, thank Merlin. He looks like he’s about to faint, his face has gone horribly pale. Harry does himself back up and puts a finger to his lips. Dennis nods, looking wide eyed and terrified and Harry has a job believing he’s twenty. He unlocks the toilet door and goes out.

The man looks mortified as he sees who it is. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know it was you.” The man glances over Harry’s shoulder and Harry moves blocking his line of sight.

“Even I need to use the toilet every now and then. I know some people think I piss diamonds and shit gold, but that just isn’t true.” He cringes inwardly, he hates playing the arsehole, even if it fits.

The man nods though he clearly doesn’t believe Harry for a moment. “I had to come in, there was a complaint. You know what it’s like, we get all sorts going on in here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “There’s nothing going on in here now.” His arsehole still feels slick with lube and a little bit tender and it twitches

The door to the bar opens, letting in a burst of noise, making the landlord jump. “Okay,” he says. Harry makes a gesture for him to go first. He looks back, but he can’t see Dennis’ feet under the door. No sign of him at all. He doesn’t catch up with Dennis for the rest of the night, which is both a relief and irritatingly worrying.

He’s definitely had too much to drink by the time he gets back to Grimmauld Place. It takes several goes to get the door open and when he manages it he nearly falls over the step. He manages to brush against the curtains uncovering Sirius’s mother’s portrait and she screams at him for a good minute before he manages to get the curtains closed properly, his ears ringing with her insults.

He feels sick. He goes through to the kitchen, casting a weak Lumos and gets a glass of water, via his wand. It’s a bit warm, a bit frothy, but he gulps it down and pours another.

He slumps down into the nearest chair and lets his head drop onto the table. There’s a letter under his cheek and a small, beautifully wrapped package.

He frowns, his stomach clenching, threatening to expel its contents. Tea. Tea would be good. He pours boiling water from his wand over a teabag, imagining Hermione’s appalled expression with something akin to glee.

“So, what the hell is this doing here?” he asks himself out loud. Kreacher appears grumbling, his temper hasn’t much improved since he became Harry’s house elf and Harry threatens him at least once a week with a sock. He’s far too old and set in his ways to be freed and reacts as though Harry’s threatened to remove his head and mount it alongside all the others. Actually, he’d probably love that.

“Master Harry is wanting to know what this letter is?” he asks, dourly. “It is coming from Gringotts.”

Harry frowns. “You accepted an owl from Gringotts?”

Kreacher mumbles something, looking shifty and pulling on his ears.

“The truth, Kreacher. I order you, as your master.”

“Kreacher accepted an owl, yes,” he says, giving Harry a filthy look.

Harry sighs. “I’d rather you didn’t, Kreacher. They need my approval.” He makes a note to talk to one of the goblins tomorrow - this sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen.

He recognises the handwriting on the letter as belonging to the Mysterious M.

> J,
> 
> There was nothing wrong with my charm work. I went through it a number of times and could find nothing out of order. I have enclosed a small sample of the ink. You will need to take a memory and mix it into the ink, much as you would with a pensieve. Should you care to share the results with me, I would be glad to see them.
> 
> M

Harry opens the parcel. There’s a small wooden box within which a very small bottle nestles. Shimmering black ink swirls inside. Harry finishes his tea and uncorks the bottle. It has a faint scent of iron. He knows he should get Hermione to check it out. Wand diagnostics are basic at best. But he’s pissed, he’s a Gryffindor to the core, and he can’t resist a tiny try of it.

He puts his wand to his temple and takes the memory. The only memory he wants to write. He shakes the thought into the bottle of ink and it spins and twines with the contents, black and silver, until the silver fades, consumed by the black ink and now it gives off the scent of fresh sweat and alcohol. Harry shivers.

He takes his quill and dips it in the little bottle, beginning to write out the scenario which isn’t in his head any more, it’s in the ink. It’s a strange feeling, as he’s writing he can’t anticipate what happens next before he writes it down - it’s only as he’s writing it that he sees it.

He’s never been to Manchester before, but somewhere along the line he heard about Canal Street and decided that he needed to go before he dies. Again. It’s summer, still light out though it’s nearly ten at night. He can tell he’s in the right place from the sheer amount of men, some of them snogging in doorways. He’s nervous, his palms are sweating and under his armpits are damp. Enjoying blatantly staring at arses encased in tight jeans, chests in even tighter t-shirts, but feeling overdressed. He’s wearing his best green shirt and dark jeans and hoping for the best.

He picks a club and goes in. It’s small and dark, swirling lights racing over the crowd of dancers, the beat pounding, the floor filled mostly with men, some sinuously writhing against one another other flinging their limbs around with seemingly wild abandon. Around the edge of the dance floor there is a raised platform, the lighting is better and a bar runs along the entire length of one wall.

Harry leans against the bar, buys a bottle of beer for what is a ridiculously extortionate amount and scans the crowd. Enjoying the way some of the men are dancing so close. It’s only as he starts letting his eyes wander along the raised floor that he sees _him_.

The boy - how the fuck he got in is a mystery, he can’t be more than seventeen - is leaning back against a wall at a ridiculous angle, hips jutting out, long skinny legs crossed at the ankle. He’s blond, his hair long and slicked back, wearing tight, dark jeans and a tight little t-shirt that doesn’t quite cover his midriff. He’s got a smug, self-satisfied looking smirk on his face.

Harry can’t tear his eyes away, now that he’s seen him, his stomach a queasy mix of nerves and desire. He knows why. He’s not stupid. The boy reminds him so much of a young Draco Malfoy it’s not even funny. The Draco Malfoy he remembers from Hogwarts before he took the mark and had that… that confidence crushed out of him. And of course he remembers only too well what a shit Malfoy was, but then so was Harry. Sometimes he wonders what would have happened had he taken Malfoy’s hand that first time in Madam Malkin’s. He wouldn’t trade Hermione and Ron for Malfoy, but maybe… he stops the thought. It’s ridiculous fantasy. Malfoy is a _Malfoy_ after all.

Harry is still staring at the boy when a short, stocky man approaches him, trying to pull him onto the dance floor. Harry’s shocked at the flare of anger he feels. The man looks like a git. Looks like he’s only interested in one thing. _And you’re not?_ a little voice in Harry’s head pipes up.

 _Not like that_ , Harry thinks. He straightens up, ready to go over and intervene, even if he’s not wanted. But the boy can handle himself. Fuck, he’s so like Malfoy. The way he glares at the man and he says something, Harry imagines something sharp and cutting, snarled in Malfoy’s clipped tones _If I wanted to be mauled I’d try and make friends with a hippogriff_.

The man walks away and Harry grins at the boy. And just then the boy looks right at him, and smiles. Not a smirk. Harry raises his eyebrows and darts a look at the rejected Romeo, then raises his beer in salute. The boy tilts his chin down and looks at Harry with an unmistakably flirty expression.

Harry straightens up again and makes a hesitant step forward. The boy pushes himself up higher against the wall, and his lips quirk up slightly at the corners.

He really, really hopes he isn’t going to be rejected. Maybe the boy was looking at that other bloke just like this before he went over. Harry’s stomach feels filled with flobberworms as he makes his way round to where the boy is standing, trying not to bump into anyone but still unable to take his eyes off the boy.

“Hi,” he says, with no hope of being heard. But the boy just grins, takes his hand and leads him to the dancefloor.

“I can’t dance,” Harry yells, just knowing he’s going to fuck this up if he’s expected to do anything other than his usual side to side shuffle.

The boy doesn’t hear him or ignores him. They’re in the middle of the crowd, now. The boy turns and presses himself chest to thigh against Harry, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. Up close he’s nothing like Malfoy. Harry doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Blue eyes, rounded chin, he has a dimple in his right cheek. It’s stupid to make comparisons, and at the end of the day if it were Malfoy in front of him, he’d probably have been hexed by now… he’d definitely have been hexed by now. Most likely in the bollocks.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he rests them lightly on the boy’s waist. But it gives him another strange feeling, like dancing with Ginny. He moves his hands round until they’re resting just above the boy’s skinny arse.

“What’s your name?” Harry asks as the boy starts circling his hips against him.

The boy gives a little shake of his head and doesn’t answer. Harry knows then that it’s not going to be more than a brief thing, just a moment out of time. He’s relieved. He ducks his head and presses a kiss to the boy’s throat. He can feel the hum of pleasure rather than hear it, vibrating against his lips. The boy is warm under his hands, Harry pushes his t-shirt up until it rucks under his armpits, sliding his hands over the boy’s soft skin, pinching his nipples and feeling the boy’s urgency increase. The boy pushes his fingers through Harry’s messy hair and pulls him in to a hot, wet kiss.

Harry moans, eyes squeezing shut, starting to move with the boy. It’s less dancing than a simulation of sex. He drops his hands down to squeeze and pull on that skinny arse, Pull him closer. He can feel everyone else around them. He imagines them watching. Some of them probably are. It turns Harry on even more. He kisses the boy again, tongue thrusting into his mouth. He can feel the boy starting to tremble. Harry opens his eyes and looks. The boy is flushed, head tipped back slightly, offering his neck for Harry’s delight. He’s so painfully beautiful it’s all Harry can do not to pinch himself to make sure it’s really happening. Harry sucks the boy’s neck, eyes open, catching sight of the man from earlier, dancing with someone else, but he has his eyes on Harry and the boy. Devouring the sight of them frotting against one another. Harry squeezes the boy’s arse again and the man licks his lips.

There are others watching them. Every one of them turns him on even more. He leans in, sucking the boy’s earlobe which makes him shiver beautifully. “You should see what you’re doing to everyone,” he says.

The boy looks into Harry’s eyes and smirks. Harry grins back.

The boy turns to face his audience, Harry’s hands splayed across his stomach, he rubs his arse back against Harry’s cock and Harry moans again. He runs one hand down sliding it over the front of the boy’s jeans. Every pair of eyes is trained on his hand. Harry pops open the button of the flies and draws the zip down slowly. He can feel the way the boy’s breathing is verging on hyperventilating. He’s as turned on as Harry is. He’s a star. He’s a beautiful star fallen from the sky and Harry is rubbing against him, alternating between sucking his neck and gasping and telling the boy “You’re so hot, they all want you, look at them fucking you with their eyes. I want to fuck you, so badly.”

“I want you,” the boy says, finally losing his composure. He has a Manchester accent, of course he does, he almost certainly still lives with his parents, here in Manchester. “I want you to fuck me.” Harry can tell from his voice that he’s not going to last much longer. He slips his hand inside the boy’s tight tight jeans, no underwear - no fucking room! - and pulls his cock out.

“Look at them,” Harry says. “They want you as much as I do.”

The boy turns his head and kisses Harry desperately, their teeth clashing, Harry strokes his cock and the boy comes all over Harry’s hand.

Harry thrusts hard against the boy’s arse, stroking his fingers through the sticky mess and he comes, like that, in his jeans.

The boy is swaying in his arms. Harry turns him around and pulls him close, pulling him away from the rest of the world. “Alright?” he asks. The boy grimaces at the mess he’s made of himself, tucking himself back inside his jeans.

He nods, his lips brushing against Harry’s neck. “Yeah,” he says.

Harry strokes his hand up and down the boy’s side and they move to the music for a while longer. He feels it when the boy starts severing the connection. He feels different. Moves differently. So Harry pulls away too. He can’t dance for shit, but he starts swinging his hips a bit, shuffling his feet about as they move apart.

Just before they part ways, the boy smiles and gives him a soft kiss and then he’s gone.

~*~

Harry puts his quill down and takes a deep breath. He hadn’t thought of that for a while, he tried not to. The boy had reminded him so forcefully of a young Draco Malfoy that it hurt, even though it gets him hard like no other memory.

He’s not surprised to find that he’s hard as a rock after reliving that night. He looks at the words on the paper, seeming so innocuous. He knows he’s going to send it. He has to alter the memory a bit and rewrite it so the Mysterious M doesn’t know it’s him or that the boy reminded him of Malfoy. But, yes, he wants to share it. The most erotic… the most perfect night of his life.

He doesn’t change the way the boy looks at all. He’s too beautiful and if the Mysterious M has any taste at all he’ll appreciate him as much as Harry did. He finishes and adds a covering note that just says:

> You said you’d like to watch, I hope this lives up to your expectations.

He calls for a Gringotts owl and attaches the note to its leg, then heads up to bed. He lies there for a while wondering if M has received it yet, if he’s reading it, if he’s wanking, if he’s feeling exactly what Harry felt at the time. One thing’s for certain, the Mysterious M knows how to brew a potion and when he looks, the silver of the memory is all that’s left in the bottle. He scoops it out with his wand putting it back in his head.

Harry brings himself off thinking of M, getting off to his memory of that night.

He’s just drifting off when an urgent tap at his window jerks him awake. He jumps out of bed, pulling on his discarded pants and t-shirt, and lets in a disgruntled looking screech owl. Harry takes a small, tightly rolled scroll and the owl flies off without even waiting for a treat.

It’s only three words, but they make Harry’s stomach plummet and his heart race and his palms sweat all at once.

> We should meet - M

Harry goes to fetch Twiglet and attaches his own, even more brief, missive.

> Alright - J

And then he starts to panic.

There are a flurry of owl posts between Harry and the Mysterious M arranging meeting places. Harry considers revealing who he is, but M doesn’t give him any clues as to his identity. He thinks about using a glamour to disguise himself until he knows who the mystery man is but he just doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t tell anyone, and then Neville pops round with a slightly sinister looking plant. “It wants to live in the bathroom.”

Harry gives Neville a rather cock-eyed look. “You haven’t actually managed to breed one to talk back now?”

Neville looks a bashful and goes a bit red. “No, not yet. I mean I don’t, you know, have long conversations with them. I say stuff and sometimes I get this image in my head of where they want to be. It’s probably just me being a bit mad.”

Harry instantly feels bad. But then he tastes the strange concoction that Neville has made and called ‘tea’. It definitely isn’t tea.

“I don’t think you’re mad,” he says, trying really hard not to wrinkle his nose up. “You’re usually right, so I guess you know what you’re talking about. Okay, well, if it wants to go in the bathroom, it can go in the bathroom. It won’t give me warts or try and strangle me or anything, will it?”

“No, it’s harmless. It gets sad, though, and sheds all its leaves. If that happens go and talk to it for a bit and it’ll start growing new ones.”

Harry feels the urge to bang his head against the table. He’s not exactly great with plants as it is.

“So, er, what’s it called then?” he asks, because Neville always names his plants.

“I call it Guy, it’s the plant version of a phoenix.”

Harry’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “So, why have you called it Guy?”

“Oh, you know, Fawkes… Guy Fawkes.”

“Oh, right, clever!” Harry grins. “Want to bring it, er, Guy up to the bathroom then? Get it settled in. How do you know it’s a he?”

“Oh, it’s definitely a he.” Neville looks a bit twitchy and Harry decides not to pursue that line of questioning.

Just then Twiglet flies in and lands on Harry’s shoulder, pecking his head. Harry gets the message. “Go on, bugger off,” he says, stroking the owl’s downy feathers. He can’t read the letter while Neville’s there.

Harry gets up, chair legs squealing against the tiles. “Coming?”

He leads Neville and Guy up to the bathroom and pushes open the door. He leans his backside against the edge of the tub. “Where are you going to put it?”

“What? Oh, on the windowsill.” Neville puts Guy there and strokes his leaves and he seems to shiver and settle. “Right, I’d best get off, Hannah’s agreed to go out with me.”

Harry feels like such a git. “That’s brilliant,” he says, going over and hugging Neville in an entirely manly way, slapping him on the back for good measure. “Where are you taking her?”

“We’re going to the park. I’ve got a picnic and flowers. Not poisonous ones.”

Harry snorts remembering that disaster in Neville’s love life. Not that he expected anything less from a date that involved Neville and Pansy Parkinson - apparently they’d both been more than a little drunk at one of Luna’s parties and Neville had talked her ear off about the many uses for bubotuber pus when she just launched herself at him and they spent the rest of the night snogging one another senseless. How Pansy knew Luna well enough to be invited to her mid-Summer Revelry was anyone’s guess.

The whole thing was a strange interlude that finally convinced Harry that school was a very long time ago and everyone really had finally started moving on. As Seamus had said at the time (though Harry still thinks he was probably taking the piss) ‘The heart wants what the heart wants’.

Unfortunately what the heart wanted hadn’t taken into account that Neville would give Pansy a bunch of flowers that included a new variety of violets that he’d bred himself. Apparently some flowers dislike being given away.

Pansy had ended up with warts all over her hands and face and Neville had ended up with a broken heart. He had never told anyone exactly what had happened between them.

Harry sees Neville off, he would wish him luck but that’s likely to just freak him out more.

Finally he sits back down at the kitchen table (after banishing the remaining contents of his mug, which have started to look distinctly sludgy). He makes himself a strong cup of coffee and unrolls the parchment.

> J,
> 
> I have thought about a suitable first meeting and, as long as you do not actively dislike opera, I have reserved a box for Carmen this Friday night at The Coliseum, in the name of Faith.
> 
> M

Harry frowns. It wasn’t what he was expecting. He has no idea if he likes opera or not, it’s not something he’s ever given that much thought to. He pulls a piece of parchment from the ever available stack towards himself and dips his quill in the ink.

> M,
> 
> I will meet you there.
> 
> J

Short and to the point, but his hands are shaking.

~*~

Harry arrives at the Coliseum with over an hour to kill. He picks up his ticket, tucks it in his wallet and heads back out into the bright summer sunshine. There is some sort of concert going on at Trafalgar Square and he stands around drinking iced coffee and listening to the music along with thousands of tourists.

Finally, when it’s time to head back to the Coliseum, he wanders back into the shade of the buildings. He’s never been inside a theatre before, not because he didn’t want to, though he has to admit that the idea of sitting through two or three hours of a play doesn’t exactly fill him with excitement. He asks for a programme and nearly gives it back when he finds out how much it costs.

M - or Faith, he can’t quite get used to calling him that though and he’s sure it can’t be his real name - told him to go straight up to the box and he would join him later. It gives Harry a weird sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wonders if M is in the foyer, which is packed with people waiting for the doors to open. Maybe Harry is being watched. He goes to the gents and when he comes out again the foyer is far less crowded, everyone making their way to their seats.

That’s when he sees him. Not M, but Draco Malfoy. And Malfoy has spotted Harry, judging by the horrified expression on his face. Harry’s stomach is churning. He had thought that they were… not friends exactly, but they had got past exhibitions of loathing in public. Malfoy’s face has twisted into a sneer.

They stand, staring at one another for a moment and then Malfoy turns sharply and pushes his way out of the foyer into the street.

Harry stares at the door, swinging shut. His stomach has plummeted and he feels horrible. There was a moment there when he thought _maybe_ Malfoy could be M. But the look on Malfoy’s face was enough to disabuse Harry of that notion.

He thinks about leaving, all the good feeling of earlier has deserted him, except he can’t stand up M or Faith or whatever the fuck his name is. He finds his way to the box, which is one of many. He’s not surprised, but maybe a little disappointed that M isn’t waiting for him. He’s lost his patience with all the secrecy.

The lights dim and Harry tries to concentrate on what’s happening on stage.

It’s marvellous. Harry has never seen anything quite like it, but it doesn’t capture his heart. He’s too out of sorts.

He’s about to leave when there is the telltale draft of the door opening and closing. The hairs on the back of his neck rise but for some reason he doesn’t look around. His heart feels as though it is in his throat and he is finding it hard to swallow.

“You missed the start,” Harry says, feeling silly, because surely the man knows, he probably organised the exact moment that he came in to coincide with something happening on the stage, only Harry’s too stupid to have noticed.

M is sitting just behind Harry’s right shoulder, his breaths caressing Harry’s neck.

“I’m sorry, I was unavoidably detained,” M says. He is well spoken, as Harry imagined he would be, but there’s a warm note to his voice. It is a good voice.

“I thought you’d decided not to come, after all.” Harry starts to turn, wanting to see the man at last, but the man puts a hand on Harry’s cheek, firm but not forceful. “Why can’t I see you?” he asks.

The man leans forward and kisses the nape of Harry’s neck. “Not yet,” he says.

Just like that Harry decides he’s had enough. He pulls away from the man. He turns and looks. He’s handsome. Very handsome, with wavy dark blond hair, neatly trimmed facial hair, his eyes seem to sparkle and if the perfectly tailored suit is anything to go by he’s got a good body underneath. Harry is cursing himself. Cursing fucking Malfoy for turning up just at the wrong time and turning him upside down, just like he always does.

It doesn’t matter how beautiful the man is or how much they want the same things, Harry’s got unfinished business with Malfoy and he doesn’t want to start something with this man, this incredibly sexy man, when Malfoy is on his mind.

“Sorry. I’m really sorry, I’ve got to go.”

He’s so flustered that he can’t open the door, pushing instead of pulling and he’s about five seconds from blowing the damn thing away when he realises his mistake. He pulls the door open and runs for it.

It takes forever to get back to Grimmauld Place and he makes yet another vow never to use Muggle transport.

He feels like an idiot. He can’t face food or drink. He should be sitting in a box at the opera being wanked off. Fuck he was good looking, too. Harry had been half expecting a troll, what with all the secrecy surrounding him. Or someone famous, but if he is then Harry’s never seen him before. He would have remembered.

He goes straight up to bed and flops down on top of the covers.

The thing is, it doesn’t matter how much he tells himself he’s a fucking idiot for walking out on M, his mind keeps coming back to the image of Malfoy standing in the foyer looking like Harry had just hexed him.

It’s ridiculous to be this hung up on the bloke, but it’s not like he’s ever been able to be rational about Malfoy. He was a thorn in Harry’s side for too long, and then when he wasn’t and Harry still couldn’t stop watching him; when the thing with Ginny fizzled into nothing; when he looked at every other girl in their year and the year below and couldn’t find one who intrigued him as much as Malfoy did; when they weren’t throwing insults or hexes at one another; when the feeling he got when he thought about Malfoy wasn’t so much loathing as lustful, then he finally admitted that maybe he’d fancied Malfoy for longer than he cared to admit.

But the knowing never did anything to help with how to approach Malfoy. He was always surrounded by Slytherins, even afterwards, and Harry was always with Ron and Hermione, and they’d nod and say hello to one another and move on and that was that. Then after Hogwarts Malfoy had disappeared… or moved away for a bit or something.

He thought he would get over it. Not seeing him every day would help. It did, sort of. It’s not like he shut himself away in Grimmauld Place and pined away for the pointy git. He went out a lot. He’d fucked and been fucked by men and women.

Harry groans and buries his head under the pillow. Malfoy is just like a bad knut, always turning up again at the worst possible times.

At some point Harry falls asleep, dreaming of Malfoy in the place of M, running his elegant hands all over Harry’s body.

~*~

He does the only thing he can and writes to M terminating their correspondence.

> M,
> 
> I’m really sorry about yesterday. I had just bumped into someone I used to know and I realised that I didn’t want to start anything with the confusion from that still hanging over me. Does this make any sense? I’m sorry if not. I’m sorry anyway.
> 
> J

He sends Twiglet off with the note and he isn’t surprised when he gets no reply. It’s a relief.

Hermione was pleased at least.

“Thank goodness. I mean, I’m very sorry that you are heartbroken or whatever, but I think it was a very foolish idea. Why don’t you come out with me and Ron to watch Ginny’s game? It’ll be fun.”

Harry hasn’t felt much like doing anything since the night of the opera, mooching around indoors and refusing to speak to anyone. Except today, apparently, Hermione isn’t taking no for an answer. She barged past him when he opened the door a crack and set about ordering him and Ron around, in an effort to “relieve the squalor of your current living conditions.”

Once the rooms were aired and the various plates of congealed food cleaned up, clothes washed, dried and put away again - and Harry really does love magic, because it would have taken hours without - she suggests getting out of the house.

Harry wrinkles his nose up, but he perks up, undeniably, at the thought.

“Alright, I suppose so.”

There is a fleeting look of surprise on Hermione’s face as she realises she’s not going to have to get into a huge argument with Harry’s stubborn side over this. She quickly smooths over it and smiles brightly. “Excellent, why don’t you go and get ready. Ron and I will wait for you.”

Harry looks down at himself, wondering what’s wrong with the t-shirt and jeans he has on. There are only two stains on the t-shirt and the jeans have something crusted on to the knee.

“Alright,” he says. He goes up to his room, the one that used to be Sirius’s, even though the half-naked Muggle women make him feel a bit weird, possibly because they don’t move around, possibly because they are women and he’s begun to accept the fact that women don’t really do anything for him.

He ignores their flat stares as he wriggles out of his jeans and throws his t-shirt on top of it. He’s got a Harpies t-shirt that Ginny gave him for his birthday one year, so he puts that on and a clean pair of jeans.

He finds Hermione and Ron smooching on the sofa in the sitting room, the only room that he’s managed to completely overhaul, banishing all trace of Sirius’s mad parents and replacing it with something homely and comfortable.

“Ready then?” he asks, loudly, sniggering as Ron and Hermione fly apart.

Hermione smoothes down her hair looking flustered and anxious Ron, on the other hand, just looks incredibly smug.

“You know, you are allowed to snog one another,” Harry says, smirking at Hermione. She gives him one of her best haughty, above-this-kind-of-nonsense looks and stalks off ahead of them. Harry exchanges an amused grin with Ron who rubs his hand through his hair and follows on after.

The stands are packed. The Harpies have flown up the league just lately pulling in record crowds and fuelling speculation that they could end up winning the league. Today they are playing the Tornadoes - a difficult match.

There’s a sea of green and blue flowing towards the grounds and Harry feels happy for the first time in ages. He joins in with the various chants that start up and calls out to the people he recognises.

“I’ll go and get the drinks and food,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the stands.”

Hermione hesitates, but Ron takes her hand, linking his fingers with hers and she smiles up at him that soft little smile she only gives him. To be honest it makes Harry feel a bit nauseous, but he tries not to show it. He gives them a little wave and joins the huge queue.

By the time he’s got burgers and beers in plastic cups the game is already underway. Harry stops in the aisle to watch an early play between Ginny and her team mate, Desdemona “Desi” Green, breaking away easily from the rest of the pack.

“Go on, Gin, go for it,” he yells, trying not to lose control of the spell and drop everything in his excitement. There is nothing quite like Quidditch to get the blood pumping. Sometimes he wishes that he had decided to turn pro after all, but it never lasts long when Ginny shows him her cuts and bruises and reminds him of the level of fitness he needs to reach by whipping his arse in pretty much anything she challenges him to.

Ginny flies forward into the scoring area, whilst Desi is joined by Gerti Leonard, the other Chaser, keeping the Beaters and their Bludgers out of it. Ginny flings the Quaffle towards the left hand goal and it goes through the hoop.

Harry yells, jumping and knocking into his own levitation spell, spilling beer everywhere. Ginny, Desi and Gerti high five each other and fly towards the stands where the Harpies fans are going mad, leaping up and down.

“Are you planning to stand there all day or may I pass?” a cool, amused sounding voice asks, when he’s finally calmed down enough to hear.

He’d know that voice anywhere. He turns, heart in his mouth, to see Draco fucking Malfoy standing behind him, with a bottle of sparkling water in one hand and a hot dog in the other.

“Malfoy. Draco, what are you doing here?”

“Potter, Harry. I thought it would be the ideal place to study Hinkypunks, you?”

Harry can’t help but laugh. “Hinkypunks? Really, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s lips curve up into a smile and Harry’s heart beats a little faster.

“I take it you’re here with Granger and Weasley,” Malfoy says, sounding almost polite.

“Yeah, you?”

He shakes his head. “Quite alone.”

Harry hesitates for a moment, before asking. “Would you like to join us? Er, we’ve not got the best seats or anything.”

Something flickers across Malfoy’s face. Harry can’t be sure if it’s contempt, pity or something less mean. “I’d love to,” he says.

He sounds genuine enough, Harry thinks. He looks around for Ron and Hermione and spots them half way up and in the middle of a row.

“Up there,” he says. Malfoy follows him to where Ron and Hermione are sitting.

“We thought you’d got lost,” Hermione says.

“Did you see?” Ron adds. “That’s my sister that is.”

“Oh, hush, everyone and their father knows Ginny is your sister by now.”

“What’s he doing here?” Ron asks, finally cottoning on to the fact that Harry isn’t alone.

“I found him trying to follow hinkypunks into the Tornadoes stands.” Malfoy snorts and Harry can’t help beaming with pleasure.

Hermione’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “I don’t know what on earth you’re on about Harry, but come and sit down and give me that beer.”

Harry hands out the beers and burgers and sits down, squishing up next to Hermione to make room for Malfoy. It’s always tight in the stands and when Malfoy sits down the entirety of his left hand side is pressed to the entirety of Harry’s right.

Harry downs half his pint in one go before he can even face Malfoy.

“So, you support the Harpies?”

“Not particularly, I can see that you are though.” He eyes Harry’s t-shirt and Harry pulls it away from his stomach, as if that’ll help not draw attention to his softening belly.

Malfoy looks away, studying the three two one formation the Harpies are now employing. He takes a drink of mineral water and Harry can’t seem to tear his eyes away. Malfoy’s adam’s apple bobs up and down and his leg presses more insistently against Harry’s. The feeling is entirely pleasurable.

“So, um, you know a couple of weeks ago, when you were at the opera,” Harry says, without thinking, and now he’s started he really has to finish. “Er, why did you storm off like that? I got the impression that you were really pissed off to see me there.”

Malfoy looks at Harry, one eyebrow cocked. “Why? Did it bother you that much, Potter?”

“Well, yeah, I thought we’d got past all that bollocks.”

“We have,” Malfoy says. He presses his thigh against Harry’s companionably and Harry presses back. “I was supposed to be meeting someone and they hadn’t turned up, it had nothing to do with you in the least.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He’s not actually sure that he believes Malfoy, but the beer has hit him and combined with the entirely pleasurable feel of Malfoy’s leg pressed against his, he decides to let it go. “So, um,” he casts about for something to say, unsure what he could possibly have in common with the man, when he feels Malfoy’s foot stroking up his ankle. On the inside.

Fucking hell.

The feel of it spreads its way up his leg to his groin and he yanks his t-shirt down to cover himself.

Hermione turns, smiling. “So, Draco, I heard you’ve recently bought the old Apothecary.”

Malfoy looks startled, but quickly regains his composure. “Yes, though it was supposed to remain confidential until the day before we open.”

“We?” Harry asks.

“I have a partner,” Malfoy says. “A business partner,” he adds. “Who is going to remain anonymous.”

Hermione bites her lip. “I’m really sorry, Draco, I didn’t know. I heard it from… well, I didn’t realise it was supposed to remain confidential.”

Ron squeezes her hand but she still looks anxious.

“It doesn’t matter,” Malfoy says. He is leaning forward to speak to her, his hand resting against the small of Harry’s back to keep his balance. It feels warm and then his hand starts moving, his fingers trailing up and down Harry’s spine. Harry darts a look at him, but Malfoy’s attention is on Hermione who’s asking him questions about his plans for the shop, now they’ve moved past the awkward opening, and Malfoy seems happy talking about it.

Malfoy looks at Harry, smirking at what he sees on Harry’s face, and Harry feels his face heat up.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, when the crowd starts up another chant and Hermione’s attention is taken away for a moment.

“Granger isn’t the only one with inside information.”

Harry’s eyes widen and his heart almost leaps out of his chest. “What is that supposed to mean? Inside information about what?”

Malfoy leans in, his lips grazing Harry’s ear, making him shiver. “Utterly scandalous, is what I heard.”

Harry can feel that he’s gone bright red. “What do you want, Malfoy?” he asks, trying not to show how anxious he is though his head keeps reminding him that Malfoy was a Slytherin and a Death Eater and he’s _Lucius_ Malfoy’s son.

“Honestly, Potter? I want to fuck you,” Malfoy says.

Harry nearly leaps out of his skin. The crowd in the Harpies stand go mental, as Desi scores and Draco squeezes his arse. He leaps up and Malfoy stands with him, clapping.

When they finally sit back down again, Malfoy leans over. “Well, what do you say, Potter?”

Harry looks at Malfoy, narrowing his eyes, trying to divine what sort of trickery there is in the request, but he’s giddy at the thought of finally having something he wants so badly with Malfoy.

“I say alright.” He stands up before realising that he’s just drawn every pair of eyes around them straight to him. “Er, just going to get another drink. Want anything?” he asks.

“Yeah, go on.” Ron hands him a ten galleon note which Harry takes rather than start an argument, not when he really wants to get away and wipe that amused smirk off Malfoy’s face.

“I’ll come and give you a hand,” Malfoy says, the double meaning hangs in the air between them. He stands, smoothing his clothes and Harry can’t help but watch the movement of his long elegant hands down his thighs.

Malfoy doesn’t move anything like fast enough for Harry’s liking. He wants to find a place to do whatever it is that Malfoy has in mind. He has plenty of ideas of his own. He is looking around when Malfoy grabs a handful of his t-shirt and pulls him through a half hidden opening.

Harry has a moment to realise they’re under the Quidditch stands on a raised platform and he can see people’s feet just above him and hear the chanting and the cheering, then Malfoy shoves him up against a wooden post and kisses Harry like he wants to consume him, rubbing Harry’s cock through his jeans.

“Fuck, you’re hard,” Malfoy says, in a breathless voice.

“What did you expect?” Harry says. “You were running you foot up and down my leg and rubbing my back and _whispering_ things. You were doing it on purpose.”

“Of course I was.” Malfoy grins and presses his hips against Harry, and now Harry can feel just how hard he is too. He moans and Malfoy pushes his tongue inside Harry’s mouth and he’s pushing and pushing and there’s nowhere for Harry to go. It’s like Malfoy’s trying to force himself inside Harry’s body.

Harry grabs his arse and pulls him closer, hips arching up to meet him. “I thought you hated me,” Harry says. “Still.”

“I told you -” Malfoy grasps Harry’s hair and tilts his head and kisses him hard and wet and messy. “I told you I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but the way… oh…” Harry loses track of his train of thought at Malfoy’s hips slide against his. It’s not enough, nowhere near enough, he’s pushing his hips as hard as he can, trying to find that perfect level of friction and pressure.

Malfoy pulls away from him and Harry’s hips follow, but Malfoy pushes him back with a hand, sliding his finger around the waistband of his jeans until he gets to the fly. He tugs it open, popping the butting and dragging the zip down, then he undoes his own, pushing both their trousers down to their thighs.

Harry can feel the way the hem of his t-shirt brushes against the sensitive skin of his arse, just for a moment before he’s shoved back against the post, t-shirt flattened between him and the post, rucking up, and fuck he hopes he’s not going to get splinters from this.

Malfoy angles himself, his chest against Harry’s, his cock sliding over Harry’s. Malfoy grabs his arse and squeezes it, pulling him closer and Harry lets out a jagged cry.

“You want this, want me, don’t you, Potter?”

“Yeah,” Harry moans, his head tipping back and hitting the wooden post, looking up into the stands just above them. If he reaches up, he could grab someone’s foot. The thought makes his heart pound harder and faster and sends that thrill through him. That thrill of doing something wrong. Doing something that could get him into trouble. It’s perfect. “How did you know about this?” he asks.

Malfoy just covers Harry’s mouth with his hand, grinning at him before kissing his neck. Sucking his neck. Sucking hard and fuck, it’s so good. His moans are muffled by Malfoy’s hand and he likes that too, knowing that if he makes too much noise everyone will be able hear him.

Malfoy is pressing against him harder now, hard and fast and Harry can feel that feeling, like the feeling before lightning strikes, like the feeling he gets before he gets a good hex off, but it comes from a different place entirely.

“Fuck, fuck close,” he says, muffled against Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy takes his hand away and replaces it with his lips, his tongue sliding in and out, twisting and writhing against Harry’s, his hips rutting against Harry faster and faster.

Harry cries out as he comes, the sound swallowed up and taken in by Malfoy.

A cheer goes up as someone scores.

“Oh fuckfuck _fuck_ yes,” Malfoy yells and he comes, adding to the mess between their stomachs.

Harry closes his eyes and listening to the hushed sound of Malfoy’s breathing and buzz of conversation from the stands. A chocolate wrapper floats down and lands on the floor nearby, joining the other rubbish.

Malfoy is leaning against him, solid but not heavy. Harry likes his weight and the way that he smells, he uses a spicy smelling soap but his shampoo is a much softer scent. Harry can smell it, rising from him with the warmth of his body heat, but then Malfoy pulls away, his face screwing up with distaste. Harry cleans them both quickly with his wand.

“Sorry,” Harry says, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’m not usually that quick.” He jerks his jeans and pants back up, jumping about a bit in the process. Malfoy, the graceful git, seems to get his to glide up his legs and fastened in one smooth movement.

“It was fine, Potter,” Malfoy says. “But I should be going.”

“Aren’t you coming back?” Harry asks, though he knows full well what the answer will be. He feels like a wanker. Like a pathetic, sad wanker. They’re not in a relationship. It’s sex. It’s like any other quick fuck and the sooner he remembers that the better.

He forces a grin. “If you ever want to do it again, Malfoy,” he says. Then he leaves, thinking it better if he doesn’t hang around anymore to make things awkward. He stops off to get more beers but when he gets back to the stands the Seeker for the Tornadoes has caught the snitch and it’s all over.

Luna’s joined Ron and Hermione and is discussing something about opening hours that Harry can’t really concentrate on.

“Oh, you’re back, where’s the fer- er, where’s Malfoy?” Ron says, taking his beer and draining it in a few long gulps.

“He had to go,” Harry says, trying to grin, pretty sure it’s a complete failure, but Ron’s not exactly the most observant person on the planet.

Hermione glances over at him and Harry thinks she’s going to say something about how long he was gone, but then Luna leans towards her and whispers something. Hermione frowns for a moment, then raises her eyebrows and finally a broad smile breaks out across her face. “Luna, that’s brilliant. I had no idea.”

Harry has a vague moment wondering what they’re talking about, but he can’t concentrate. He doesn’t really care. Horrible as it sounds.

He really shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn’t be looking for a flash of fair hair in the crowd as they leave, particularly as Harry suspects Malfoy walked away and didn’t look back the moment he’d gone. But this isn’t - absolutely _not_ \- a huge mistake, guaranteed to make him even more obsessed.

With that in mind Harry goes home, showers and dresses and heads straight back out. He goes to a Muggle club and picks up a bloke and they wank each other off in a dark corner.

Afterwards Harry hates himself. He feels like he’s ruined the day. Maybe it is the only time he will ever get to have Malfoy and now he has to think of it in the same breath as this bloke. He feels sick. He leaves the man, wiping off his hand on the wall. Harry wipes his hand on his t-shirt and gets to the nearest dark alleyway to Disapparate.

~*~

He’s a wanker and he knows it. He doesn’t lock himself in Grimmauld Place and mope about, but he is more irritable, more stubborn, more argumentative than ever. Sometimes he feels like he’s turning into Malfoy circa 1995.

He’s received an invite for a Ministry function, a celebration of something or other, Harry’s lost track of all the celebrations they feel the need for. It’s just another excuse to spend money on a pointless party when there are a million things it would be better spent on and when Hermione and Ron come round on Thursday after work for curry night he tells them so.

“You know that money would be better off going to help the families who lost people. I’m sick of these things. Every time they expect me to dress up and they trot me out like some prize pillock to say how fucking wonderful it is and how all the proceeds will go to blah, blah fucking blah, and you know - you bloody well _know_ , Hermione - that none of it gets to the people that _really_ need it.”

“So, don’t go, then,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes. She puts down the menu on the coffee table.

He knows she’s calling his bluff. He can’t not go. He huffs angrily, the wind knocked out of his rant.

“I’ll go, but I don’t have to like it,” Harry counters.

Ron is sitting on the sofa reading the _Prophet_ , or hiding behind it trying not to laugh at what a colossal arsehole he’s being. The thing is he knows it. He knows he is, but he’s so fucked off with the way things ended with Malfoy. He feels like a third year Hufflepuff with a crush on the Head Boy. He should never have got off with Malfoy. Never in a million years.

“Harry,” Ron says, folding over the top of the paper and leaning forward, looking at him intently. “Why don’t you just ask the ferrety git to go out with you? You might actually enjoy it a little bit then.”

“What?” Harry doesn’t have to feign his shock, he’s about to choke on his own tongue or something equally ridiculous.

Ron just rolls his eyes and sits back. “Fine, pretend away, but we’re not stupid. You were gone much too long for a few beers, you came back alone and we heard -”

“Ron!” Hermione says, flashing him a warning look.

He rustles his paper but he frowns and looks back at Harry. “We could _hear_ him. It sounded like you were pretty good, whatever it was you were doing to him.” Ron looks a bit like he might have been scarred for life.

Harry wishes there were some sort of spell that would split open the ground and bury him forever.

“It sort of makes sense, now,” Hermione says. “All the time you were so obsessed with him -”

“I was not _obsessed_ with him.”

Hermione sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. “And you haven’t been pining since the match, I suppose,” she says, primly. “We know you like him.”

“I don’t _want_ to like him,” Harry says.

“Neither do I,” Ron says in a low voice and Hermione slaps him.

“Anyway, it doesn’t bloody matter because I have no idea where to get hold of him.”

Hermione grins triumphantly. “Yes you do.” She grabs the paper from Ron.

“Oy!”

“Look, the Apothecary is re-opening next week, and we all know who the new owner is going to be.” She hands Harry the paper, open to the right page, a picture of Malfoy, arms folded across his chest, looking every bit the smug bastard that he is, and fuck Harry has it bad for him. His heart feels like it is doing a tap dance, his stomach is doing flip flops and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Just at a stupid picture in a stupid paper.

“No way. I’m not asking him out,” Harry says, frankly petrified of the idea.

Ron snorts and picks up the curry house menu, Merlin knows why as he always has the Chicken Madras, basmati rice and a Keema Naan, creature of habit that he is.

“Fine,” Hermione says. “But either you cheer up or we’re going home.”

“What about the curry?” Ron asks, eyes wide with alarm.

Harry is still glaring at the picture of Malfoy. He is just standing there with his arms folded across his chest and that smug smile, barely moving, except when a gust of wind ruffles his hair, sending it across his eyes, and then, right at the end, just before it loops back to the start again, he slides his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his face.

Harry wants to do that. He wants to run his fingers through Malfoy’s hair. He wonders why the hell he didn’t do that when he had the chance. Malfoy’s hair has a kind of mythical place in his mind. Maybe it’s the unnatural colour of it. At least he doesn’t have to wonder if it matches down there any more. Fuck, his mouth is watering. He throws the paper down on the table.

“I wish everyone would fuck off out of my private life.”

“If you kept it out of sight we would,” Hermione says.

“She’s got a point, mate,” Ron adds, presumably catching a look from Hermione. “Can we order now? I know what I want.”

Hermione makes an annoyed noise in the base of her throat and Ron throws himself back against the sofa back in frustration.

Harry feels a bit guilty, he’s ruining it, and curry evening was an effort for them all to get together once a week no matter what, especially after things went tits up with Ginny. He’s lucky, he knows he’s lucky to have friends like Ron and Hermione, and Ginny for that matter. They’re more like family.

“I still can’t believe you’re trying to get me to go out with Malfoy. On a date. It’s like I died and came back to a parallel universe or something.” He narrows his eyes at Hermione. “Why exactly are you trying to get me to go out with him?”

Hermione blushes and her hair seems to puff out slightly. He sometimes amuses himself with wondering if it is some sort of natural defence mechanism. “Nothing. I mean you’re miserable and difficult and everyone knows that you’re… you’re attracted to him. And he’s attracted to you.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Since when?”

“Oh, Harry, since forever. And up to last week I wouldn’t have said a word, but after what happened at the game -”

“We got off and parted ways, hardly love’s young dream.”

Hermione huffs. “I don’t want to know.”

“Great, maybe we can talk about something else now,” Harry says.

“We could order curry,” Ron interjects.

After that the evening is a bit of a bust, to be honest. They talk about Harry’s inability to find a job and Ron makes things worse by saying he doesn’t need a job seeing as he’s got two vaults full of gold.

In the end Harry gets pissed and Hermione gets pissed off.

Harry can’t bring himself to go to the opening of Draco’s shop. He reads the article the following day in the _Prophet_. Malfoy looks lickable and Harry crumples the paper and throws it away, then goes to retrieve it later and wanks over the smug git’s face.

~*~

People keep arriving, dressed in all their finery. Harry tugs at the collar of his formal robes, hot and bothered, irritated beyond belief. He didn’t want to come. If he never had to attend one of these things again in his life, he would still have attended far too many, but turning it down is not an option. At least Ron and Hermione are here, somewhere. He hasn’t seen them yet. He’s lurking behind a gaudily flowering tree, trying to avoid catching anyone’s eye.

There is a tug on the sleeve of his robe and he sighs inwardly as he turns to see who it is.

“Malfoy,” he says, his pulse speeding up just at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow and smirks at him. “I got an invite, the same as you.”

“Really?” Harry can’t help but be surprised.

“Or maybe I bribed someone. Apparently Ministry employees are less scrupulous about these things than Hogwarts prefects.”

Harry has the urge to laugh, but suppresses it.

“Coming, Potter?” Malfoy asks, taking a step back, still gazing at Harry intently.

Harry swallows nervously, wondering what he has in mind. He glances around quickly, nods and follows Malfoy who takes him to a large room with a glass ceiling, filled with potted palm trees and naked statues, chairs and sofas dotted about along the walls. Malfoy presses him up against the wall, behind one of the potted palms, his hand braced against the wall by Harry’s head.

Malfoy leans in, his smooth cheek touching Harry’s rougher one, his lips brushing against Harry’s ear. “Want to play, Potter?” he asks, his voice low and seductive.

Harry swallows again, feeling like he’s about to be consumed, no matter what his answer is. But he wants. His cock is full and hard and uncomfortable inside his trousers. He half wishes he had the guts to go commando under his robes. Malfoy’s smirk grows a little brighter, as if he can read Harry’s thoughts.

“What did you have in mind?” Harry asks.

Malfoy’s free hand moves down to cup him through his robes. “That would be telling. Let’s just say you’ll be mine for the night.”

Harry’s breath catches and his eyes widen in shock.

“No, you fool, not that.” Malfoy rolls his eyes. “As if I’d be able to cast an Unforgivable at a Ministry function, I’d have every Auror in the place on me in a moment. I want you to want it, Potter. I want you to beg for it.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

“Do you trust me?” Malfoy asks, removing his hand from Harry’s cock and taking his hand.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. He looks in Draco’s eyes, the predatory gleam there makes him shiver. “You’re not going to hurt me or humiliate me?”

Malfoy smirks at him and strokes his fingers along Harry’s palm. “I promise I won’t do anything you don’t enjoy, and if you don’t like any of it, you can stop it at any moment by saying _Finite_.”

“It’s magical?” Harry asks, wanting clarification.

“Of course, Potter. We are wizards, after all.”

“How? No wands at these things,” he says.

Malfoy runs his finger around Harry’s wrist and Harry feels the magic - a tight band, making his skin prickle. “Most witches and wizards don’t make the most of their own latent magic; most don’t need to. But when one is relieved of their wand, it’s surprising what one can learn to do.”

Harry winces, remembering. “You never got another wand, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Harry licks his lips. He’s seriously thinking about going along with this and it feels like insanity. If someone had told him, back in the sixth year at Hogwarts, that he would be considering putting himself under the control of Draco Malfoy, he would have thought they had lost their mind. Or they were joking. Or stupid. Or all three. So what does that say about him now?

“Okay, I’ll do it. But if anything happens to me, Malfoy, it won’t just be me you’ll have to deal with.”

Malfoy puts his hands up, in a gesture of surrender. “I know: the entire Ministry never mind the ire of Weasley and Granger.” He tips his head on one side, looking thoughtful. “Did you ever..?”

“What?”

“Never mind, I’m not sure I want to know.”

Harry wrinkles his nose as he realises what Malfoy is getting at. “Pervert.”

Malfoy smirks. “Mmm, I think that’s a little hypocritical, don’t you?”

Harry feels himself blush and scowls. “You’re the one who wants to do… whatever it is you want to do to me.”

Malfoy strokes a finger down Harry’s cheek. “That’s right, I do, and you want me to, Potter, don’t you?”

Harry opens his mouth but no words come out, his mouth is dry as a desert and his throat makes a clicking noise when he swallows. “Yes,” he says, finally.

“Good,” Malfoy says. He slides his hand over Harry’s cock again cupping the hard length of it. Malfoy’s magic seems to encase it and Harry shivers at the feeling, until it starts getting tight.

“Malfoy,” he says, panic warring with irritation.

Malfoy cups his cheek with his free hand and smiles, the smile reaches his eyes and Harry finds himself relaxing, pressing his cheek into the touch. “I promised,” he says. “Malfoys don’t break their promises, on pain of death.”

Harry nods, wide eyed and a little blurry around the edges. All of his attention is focused on Malfoy and the hand between his legs, weaving its magic, so when he realises there is someone else in the room with them he nearly chokes with shock. There are people walking past them, where they are pressed against the wall, and yet no-one gives them a second glance. Malfoy presses his thumb against Harry’s lips until he opens up.

“They can’t see us,” he says.

Harry draws a shuddering breath. He doesn’t know why they can’t be seen and the relief confuses him. Usually he _needs_ just that knowledge that he might be seen. Malfoy’s thumb feels strange in his mouth, the nail pressing against the roof of his mouth. He purses his lips and gives it an experimental suck. Malfoy smirks, but his pupils are wide and dark, rimmed with silver. He presses his thumb in further and pulls it out. In and out. Harry’s never given head before, never much fancied being the one doing that, but for some reason the idea of it with Malfoy makes him desperate to do just that. He sucks harder, swirling his tongue around Malfoy’s thumb, Malfoy’s eyes are boring into him, revealing the heat building inside him. Harry’s cock feels like it’s being massaged by millions of strands of Malfoy’s magic. He wants to ask what it is, what Malfoy’s done to him, but he can only suck more wantonly, moaning around Malfoy’s thumb.

“Fuck,” Malfoy says quietly and Harry feels a tiny bit smug. “I will have you on your knees before the night is out.”

Harry moans again and he feels Malfoy’s hand move from his cock. He jerks his hips forward, needing it, needing just a little bit more. He’s so on edge, so hard, so desperate already, and the people don’t matter any more. If they can see him so much the better. Malfoy caresses his cheek, even as he presses his thumb into Harry’s mouth again. “Patience,” he says, and then he reaches inside Harry’s robes, unfastening the fly of his trousers.

It’s a shock when Malfoy, rather than slide his hand inside the front pushes his hand down the back of Harry’s trousers and pants. Harry takes the opportunity to surge forward, pressing himself against Malfoy’s thigh, feeling Malfoy’s cock against his own thigh. Merlin, but he’s hard and Harry wants him right here, right now. Harry tries to slide his hands around Malfoy’s waist, only to find them yanked back against the wall. He makes a surprised sound but Malfoy presses his thumb more insistently inside his mouth.

“Shhh, only a little while longer.”

Harry shivers, wondering what else Malfoy is going to do. He already feels like he’s about to explode. The answer comes quickly. Malfoy’s fingertip against his arsehole, stroking back and forth. Harry lets out a soft cry, and Malfoy removes his thumb and kisses him, swallowing Harry’s noises, which increase as Malfoy’s magic worms its way inside him.

“Fuck,” Harry says half falling against Malfoy who wraps one arm around him. He still rubbing that finger back and forth, back and forth, the magic reaching higher, wider, filling him completely, _expanding_ inside him.

Harry is shaking in Malfoy’s arms. He doesn’t think it’s possible that he can take any more without coming. It is agonising and perfect at the same time.

“Merlin, Malfoy, I need to come,” he says, pulling back, gazing at Malfoy through heavy lidded eyes.

“But you won’t. Not until I tell you to, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widen with shock. Horrified. “I can’t… I can’t… I have to sit through dinner. I can’t… not like this.”

Malfoy strokes his hand along Harry’s back. “You can and you will, for me. You’ll sit there and you’ll feel my magic keeping you on edge and you will make small talk with the Minister’s wife and the Head of the Department for Magical Mishaps and I will be watching, Harry.”

“F-fuck, Malfoy. I don’t…”

“No-one ever sees you, Potter. They all see the boy who lived, the hero, the saviour. I see you.”

Harry’s chest feels suddenly tight, aching and his eyes sting. “I can’t do this.”

“You know what to say, Harry. You know what will make it stop.” Malfoy strokes Harry’s sweaty hair away from his forehead. “You look like you have been well fucked already. Do you think they’ll notice?” He sounds amused.

Harry’s eyes dart a look over Malfoy’s shoulder. There is a woman just across from them eyeing up a statue with a very small penis.

Malfoy pulls his hand out of Harry’s trousers, his elegant hands disappear between the folds of Harry’s robes again to refasten his trousers and Harry lets him. Not that he has much choice with his hands tied back by invisible bonds. Malfoy wraps his arms around Harry and touches his wrists, setting them free. But he doesn’t automatically let go of Harry. He strokes Harry’s arse and pulls him close, kissing his neck.

It’s a strangely sweet thing, considering how Malfoy has him trussed up and filled. Harry tips his head to the side, letting Malfoy kiss his neck as much as he wishes. He has his misgivings - he’s nervous as fuck - if it all goes to hell it will be a disaster, but strangely the thought of that doesn’t trouble him as much as it should. He’s so tired of being this icon. This paragon of virtue for everyone to look up to. He’s just a man. Just…

Malfoy is rutting against his hip, his breaths coming fast, hot and wet against Harry’s neck, and then he bites him there, sucking hard.

“Ow!” Harry winces, but there’s a pleasurable tingle where Malfoy bit him now. “Oh!” Harry pulls Malfoy against him, so they are rubbing against one another. So good. It’s so so good. He’s going to come. “I’m going to…” and then the magic around his cock tightens painfully, cutting his words and his orgasm off. “Jesus, ow, what the fuck?”

Malfoy chuckles against his neck and bites him again. “Mine, Potter. All of you, including that. And later, if you are good, maybe I’ll let you come.”

“You can’t make me,” Harry says, giving Malfoy what he hopes is a glare and not a horribly desperate, needy look.

Malfoy smirks at him again. “Careful what you say, Potter.” He raises an eyebrow waiting for Harry to work his way through that one. It doesn’t take him long and Harry feels faint at the thought of being left wanting.

“You want this as much as I do, if not more,” Malfoy says.

Harry feels a shiver run down his spine at the words. He aches and he needs and yet not having makes something unfurl in the pit of his stomach. Something more than this.

Malfoy steps back, letting his gaze sweep over Harry, head to foot. He strokes the spot on Harry’s neck where he bit him. Harry feels the tingle of magic there and tries to look at his own neck, which is clearly insane. “I’ll have to replace that one later,” Malfoy says, with some regret in his voice. He straightens Harry’s robes and sweeps the hair out of his eyes. “You’ll do,” he says. “I want you to go out there now, and no hiding amongst the foliage. Get out there and mingle, and I will be watching.”

Harry wants to say something, a million questions crowd his mind. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say _Finite_ , because he suddenly doesn’t trust Malfoy at all. What if it doesn’t work? He must be a fucking idiot to let Malfoy anywhere near him. They’re not even friends. About as far from it as they can get without being enemies.

His uncertainty must show in his face because Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Second thoughts, Potter?”

Harry closes his eyes focusing on the feelings and imagining walking out into the main function room like this. The idea of being _this_ turned on and trying to hide it from everyone. Everyone except Malfoy, who will _know_ how much he aches and needs…

He stares hard at Malfoy. There are two high spots of colour on his cheeks. Vivid against his pale skin. He looks every bit as turned on as Harry feels.

“Where will you be?” Harry asks.

“I’ll be there,” Malfoy replies, without hesitation.

“Will I be able to see you?”

“Not unless I want you to.”

“What if something goes wrong? What if I need you?” Harry hates how vulnerable he sounds and curses himself for his choice of words.

Malfoy reaches out and strokes his cheek, cupping it. “If you really need me, I’ll know.”

Harry nods. “Okay… right. Alright, I’m ready.”

Malfoy gives him a beaming smile that Harry would never have thought could come from him. He feels like such a fucking Gryffindor still. He tries to ignore the constant buzz and hum of arousal, sure he must look exactly how he feels, he enters the fray once more. He couldn’t feel more different than he did half an hour ago if he tried.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice reaches him first and then she flings her arms around his neck. “Kingsley said you were here. Where have you been hiding?” Harry is aware of several flashes of light. Every bloody time!

“Do you think they’ll ever get tired of taking photos of us?” he says, disentangling her arms from his neck. “Alright, Ron?”

Ron is standing back a bit, looking incredibly fit in his new dress robes. Harry’s used to seeing him in jeans and a t-shirt, same as him, so when he makes the effort it’s always a bit of a shock to realise he’s no longer the gangly teenager. He’s well on his way to being an Auror on his own merit and not as part of the legacy of the war. And that makes Harry feel even more of a useless freeloader. He and Hermione both got their act together, so why can’t he?

“Yeah, thanks, think so. I could do without this,” Ron says, and Harry snorts in agreement. “Want to go and get a drink?”

“Alright,” Harry says.

Harry has a fleeting glance around the room, trying to spot Malfoy’s white blond hair in the crowd, but true to his word there’s no sign of him. Harry’s heart sinks for a moment, just long enough to worry about the state of his mind if he’s missing Malfoy, _for the love of Merlin_ , when the magic _whatever it is_ in his arse starts pulsing slowly.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione asks.

He’s stopped just short of the bar in surprise. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he grins and joins them at the bar.

“You look like the cat that got the cream,” Hermione says.

Harry shrugs and orders a pint.

The pulsing in his arse eases off and he relaxes, chatting to Hermione and Ron until the announcement that they should take their places for supper. Hermione and Ron are on the same table, thankfully, and Kingsley is seated to Harry’s left. Strangely enough the Minister and his wife are seated to Harry’s right and the Head of the Department of Magical Mishaps and her partner are seated next to Ron. Harry shakes his head as he imagines Malfoy sneaking a look at the tables beforehand.

He takes his seat somewhat gingerly. It doesn’t make any difference, the moment he sits down he feels the full force of the magic inside him. It seems to fill him more fully. He shifts in his seat and it rubs against his prostate.

“Oh, f-fu-!”

“Harry!” Hermione looks scandalised, Ron snorts and Harry blushes furiously and tries not to wriggle.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Kingsley asks, his deep voice does nothing to help Harry’s current predicament. It’s like the vocal equivalent of velvet and it makes his cock ache. He wants to beg him to speak again. If he were in his right mind he’d wonder at it. He’s always thought Kingsley was kind of hot, but the idea of getting turned on or wanking or… well, anything, it just feels weird. Generally. But, oh, Merlin…

“Fine, cramp, fine. Sorry.”

One of the Ministry officials, a woman called Wanda, takes Kingsley’s attention from Harry, thankfully.

Harry grips the table, easing himself into a more comfortable position. He feels so… full. So hot and aching and all his limbs feel like they’re out of control. And then the magic starts pulsing again.

Harry takes a deep breath. There’s no way he’s getting through this meal with his dignity intact. He looks round for Malfoy at all the tables. The place is packed. Every time he sees a blond head his heart leaps, but none of them are Malfoy.

He closes his eyes and thinks _I need to see you_. He opens his eyes, some mad idea that Malfoy will be right there and his heart sinks when that’s not the case.

“Wine, sir?” Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He’d recognise that voice anywhere, but when he turns to look, the man is tall and dark and delicious but he’s not Malfoy, and Harry’s heart sinks.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry says, feeling dejected. Malfoy had _promised_.

The man fills his glass and gives him a dazzling smile. “Anything I can do for you, just let me know," he says.

Harry frowns at the man who is definitely flirting with him. “I… er… thanks,” Harry says. Thankfully everyone else is distracted by their own drinks and the first course is appearing before them. Ron is trying to get the waiter to bring him another lager whilst Hermione tries to get him to have one glass of wine, just for a change - she still hasn’t forgiven them both for the hundred and one beers. That was probably a really good weekend.

The tall, dark and delicious waiter rests his hand on Harry’s back as he leans down to speak directly in his ear. _To be heard over the noise_ , Harry tries to tell himself.

“Is there anything else you need?” he asks. He sounds so like Malfoy that Harry can’t suppress a shiver and a surge of lust and oh, he really doesn’t want to do stuff with some stranger, not now, not when Malfoy is here _somewhere_ watching him and maybe Malfoy is going to let him come. Maybe Malfoy will shag him. The idea makes Harry squirm in his seat. Not a good idea.

The man smiles as if he knows just what is going on. “No,” Harry says, abruptly. “Nothing. I don’t want anything.”

The man gives him a quizzical look then rolls his eyes. He leans in again. “It’s me, you utter fool. Bloody hell, has your brain completely vacated the premises?”

Harry’s eyes widen in shock. “Polyjuice?” he asks, in a shocked whisper.

The man quirks his eyebrow in such a perfect imitation of Malfoy’s trademark expression that Harry nearly chokes.

“Are you going to calm down or do I need to go?”

Harry shivers at the threat. “No, just, sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to look like _that_.”

“Like what you see?” Malfoy asks.

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean I like, but I was going to turn you down. Him… fuck.” Harry has the urge to bang his head on the table. He’s too turned on to have this sort of brain-melting conversation.

He feels like saying the word to stop it right now. It’s all too much and too weird and he doesn’t know what the buggering fuck Malfoy is playing at. He feels anxious and it’s making him angry and Hermione is looking over at him with a worried expression on her face. He tries to give her a smile and she frowns but looks away, talking to the man on her left who is something to do with magical creatures, if Harry remembers correctly.

Malfoy’s hand starts stroking his back as he leans down again and in a softer, calmer voice he says. “Hush now, it’s alright, you’re doing wonderfully, Harry. I’ve been watching you the whole time and you are so beautiful like this. Wanting.” His voice is like honey and Harry can’t stop his eyes from closing. He dips his head, hiding his face from the rest of the room.

A feeling of calmness spreads through him as Malfoy strokes his back and speaks to him in that way.

“Good, now, let me see you, Harry, put on a show for me. Make me so desperate that I’ll have to take you in some alcove, barely hidden, too desperate to wait for the floo, too messed up to Apparate anywhere without being Splinched. You, pressed against a wall, aching for my cock.”

Harry is writhing in his seat, feeling as though he’s being fucked by Malfoy’s words and his magic. His cock is leaking, and he’s glad of his robes for once in his life.

The hand is gone. Malfoy is gone. Harry looks around for him, forgetting again that he’s supposed to be looking for black hair. He can’t pick him out and he falters, but then one of the waiters turns and quirks his lips up and Harry shudders.

Hermione keeps darting him looks, but now Harry keeps catching them and smiling in return.

“Is everything alright, Hermione? The fish is a bit overdone, don’t you think?” he asks, giving her what feels like a strained smile.

She frowns. “I’m not having the fish.”

“Oh, yes, well, lucky you.”

“Harry, what did that waiter say to you?” Hermione asks.

“He asked if there was anything else he could get me and I asked him if I could change my dessert order. I want the caramel thing.”

“Oh.” She gives him another odd look, but then Ron says he’s going off for a beer at the bar and she turns her full attention back to him again.

Harry tries to shift surreptitiously, but it’s no good. It’s so unbearably intense now. Every time he moves his prostate gets massaged and he can feel the heat in his face, across his chest, the sweat making his hair cling to his temples. The room is hot anyway, Hermione’s hair is fuzzy at the edges, in spite of the spells she uses to tame it.

Harry wants to give in and writhe against his seat and bring himself off. It won’t take long at all, he’s sure.

He wonders if Malfoy will still be the tall, dark waiter when he takes Harry. Part of him likes the idea, but the bigger part wants it to be the Malfoy he knows and he can’t argue with his lust addled brain over what it wants.

He presses his hand against his cock, the magic surrounding it is pulled tight and it’s uncomfortable. Harry wonders what would happen if he came like this. It doesn’t seem like it would be the most pleasant of orgasms, assuming he could come at all. He doesn’t want to sit through dessert like this, it doesn’t matter what he has it’ll be like eating clay.

Harry pushes himself back from the table, getting up quickly enough for the rest of the table to look at him in surprise.

“Er, sorry, just going to the loo,” he says, before turning and half running from the room, vaguely aware of the flash of several photographs being taken of his departure, just in case it turns out to be important, presumably.

The only words that are running through his mind on a loop are _I need you_. Over and over again.

He tries to find the hallway with the statues, but somehow he’s managed to get himself hopelessly lost in a maze of corridors. It’s like a nightmare and he is so fucking desperate he seriously considers stopping in the middle of the hall and jerking himself to completion only he _can’t_.

“Fucking Malfoy!” he says, thumping the wall.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

Harry doesn’t know whether to punch him or fall down at his feet and beg. But he is overwhelmed when he sees him standing there in the hallway, Malfoy once more and completely unruffled. Bastard. The decision of what to do is taken out of his hands when Malfoy gathers Harry close to him and whisks him off through the maze of corridors and up a set of stairs to a gallery that overlooks the banquet hall.

“Being a waiter has some advantages,” he says. “Such as learning the layout of a place like this.”

“Who is he?” Harry asks. “The man you’re pretending to be?”

Malfoy looks annoyed. “Not important, Potter.”

“I thought it was Harry now,” Harry says, lolling against Malfoy and trying to lick his neck. He feels off his head now, thoroughly intoxicated.

“I’ll decide what I call you and when. At this moment in time you are most definitely Potter.” Malfoy pushes Harry away, but not hard.

Malfoy pushes him up against a pillar that runs ceiling to floor, swagged on either side by silky drapes and practically growls, “Stay”. Harry vaguely wonders if every time with Malfoy is going to feature his back rammed up against a solid supporting surface. Malfoy removes Harry’s robes, discarding them in a heap and starting on the buttons of his shirt.

Harry glances to the side, looking over the balcony. The noise of people talking, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against fine china is muted up here. Ron’s missing from the table, he must have managed to get to the bar after all. Hermione is having what looks like a heated discussion with the Head of Magical Mishaps.

As Harry’s gaze goes around the table he was at just a few minutes ago, he notices that Kingsley seems to be looking right at him. Harry freezes for a moment, his heart pounding so hard he thinks he might pass out or have a heart attack or something. He imagines Kingsley seeing him and knowing it’s him. Seeing that he’s been stripped to the waist.

And maybe… maybe he’s getting turned on watching. The thought makes Harry’s cock throb. then Kingsley looks away again and Harry looks back at Malfoy.

Whilst he’s been distracted, Malfoy has wrapped the drapes around his arms several times in a loose but secure restraint. It feels good. He never thought much about being tied up, certainly wouldn’t have thought of this, which is a million miles away from being handcuffed to a bedpost, but it’s nice. It’s better than just nice. The softness of the fabric seems to caress his arms as he moves. And he _can_ move - he leans forward, letting the drapes hold his weight.

Malfoy is smiling at him. Honest to god smiling.

“You never cease to surprise me,” he says, admiring his own handiwork.

Malfoy moves in close to Harry, running his hands up Harry’s sides, stopping at his chest and rubbing his thumbs over Harry’s nipples in slow circles. Harry gasps, it feels like his nipples have been connected to his cock which jerks up and leaks inside the confines of his trousers and pants and the bonds of Malfoy’s magic.

“Fuck, Draco, please stop teasing me,” he moans.

Malfoy kisses him then, his arms wrapped around Harry’s back. Harry melts against him, pressing against Malfoy’s thigh. Malfoy allows him to rub himself to an unbearable, aching hardness yet again.

Harry’s experience with kisses has always been a bit… rubbish. He doesn’t kiss his one night stands unless he has to and Ginny’s kisses lacked a spark and Cho’s put the spark out because it was so wet and so bloody awful. It’s not his fault that he didn’t realise how good a really good kiss could be and Malfoy has perfected it.

Malfoy’s hands cup his face, controlling the tilt of his head. It’s kind of slow, but deep. The longer they kiss the more urgent they become and Draco’s hands move from his face to his hair, gripping and releasing. Moving down to caress Harry’s back, and then Malfoy slides a hand down between them, over Harry’s cock and Harry shudders, so close to coming it fucking hurts in a brilliant, horrible, gorgeous, aching, desperate way.

“Not yet, Harry,” Malfoy says.

“Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Please, Draco, please.” Harry feels the urgent prickle of tears in his eyes, his throat aches. His whole body is tense with need.

Malfoy kisses his neck and murmurs, “I want to mark you first.” Harry can’t help flinching at the words, images of the dark mark floating in his mind’s eye, but Draco brushes his lips over the spot at the base of his neck again, just above his shoulder. “This mark won’t last,” he says. “But I want you to look in the mirror when tonight is over and know that I owned you for a little while, before it fades away and becomes just a memory.”

It makes Harry’s heart clench though he doesn’t know why, just for a moment, and then Malfoy bites and sucks and licks and kisses his neck until Harry starts shuddering, his arms jerking against the silky drapes holding him in place.

Malfoy does something - jerks the drapes in such a way that Harry falls to his knees, his arms raised above him and out to the sides, stretched as though he has wings instead of arms. Malfoy unfastens his own trousers with just a deft flick of his fingers.

“I’ve never done this,” Harry says, looking up at Malfoy, knowing what he wants.

Malfoy holds his cock for Harry with one hand, and slides the other through Harry’s messy hair, almost a caress before he takes a firm but not painful grip. “Just keep your teeth out of it,” he says.

Harry cranes his head forward, his mouth only just open wide enough for the head of Malfoy’s cock, afraid that he won’t like the taste or he’ll choke on it or something hideously embarrassing. But it tastes good to him - slightly salty and slightly bitter. Not at all pissy. Harry opens his mouth wider, letting Malfoy in.

In spite of Malfoy’s efforts to keep Harry quiet earlier, Malfoy himself is not quiet in the least. He moans and pushes his hips forward in a slow thrust, pressing deeper into Harry’s mouth, stopping when Harry starts panicking and gagging on the slick, hard length of his cock. Malfoy pulls back out. He holds Harry’s head where it is and starts a steady push and pull, fucking his face, but never going further than Harry can take it.

“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy says, his fingers tightening in Harry’s hair. “Suck it.”

Harry blushes, tries to nod but he can’t really move his head a lot without getting a sharp tug across his scalp. He sucks as hard as he can and Malfoy swears. “Fuck, yes. That’s it, Potter.”

There is drool sliding out of the sides of his mouth and running down his chin and he can’t even wipe it away. Somehow that thought sets him free. He starts licking and sucking Malfoy’s cock with an enthusiasm that he didn’t expect to have.

He glances up, Malfoy’s eyes fix on his and hold him there. His lips are moving, but he’s not saying anything. Not out loud at least, but the magic inside him and around his cock start pulsing and tingling, driving him mad and he groans around Malfoy’s cock and wriggles, trying to get more… just _more_. He strains forward trying to take Malfoy’s cock deeper into his mouth, the connection between that and his own relief seem crystal clear. But Malfoy’s grip tightens in his hair.

“Nearly there,” Malfoy says, panting, his cheeks are flushed deep rose and the fabric of his shirt under his armpits is damp, almost see through and he can smell that close hot scent of Malfoy’s fresh sweat. Harry has no idea why that’s so sexy to him, but right now anything would probably send his lust levels rocketing. “Oh, fuck, yes.” Malfoy starts thrusting faster. So fast that Harry can’t keep up. He holds still, just feeling the different sensations: the tug-prickle of his scalp where Malfoy is gripping his hair; the stretch in his armpits and across his shoulders, held secure by the drapes; the fullness in his arse, pulsing harder now, and the tight binding around his cock.

Draco has lost his rhythm, thrusting shallowly, the cries issuing from him getting more urgent and strained until he lets out a long groan, coming in Harry’s mouth, Harry swallows reflexively. He’s never seen anything as hot as Malfoy coming - the agonised expression a moment before, quickly followed by the utter bliss of release.

Malfoy pulls his cock out of Harry’s mouth and tucks himself away, fastening his trousers back up.

There is a jolt of fear as he half expects Malfoy to give him one of those smirks, combined with a raised eyebrow as he turns around and leaves Harry just as he is - half naked, hard and desperate, spread out like a fucking fallen angel.

“Please, Malfoy,” Harry says, shocked at how rough his voice sounds - fucked raw.

If he weren’t being held up Harry thinks he might well have fallen on his face by now. He thrusts his hips forward, fucking thin air. Malfoy jerks him up with the drapes and his legs feel like jelly. He sways in place.

“It hurts, Malfoy, please. Let me come.”

Malfoy shuts him up with a kiss, licking inside Harry’s mouth. “You did very well, Potter,” he says and Harry gets his meaning, sagging with relief, bands of tension around his chest releasing, as Malfoy undoes Harry’s flies and pushes his hand inside. The magic binding around his cock disappears in an instant, replaced with the firm touch of Malfoy’s hand. He strokes twice and Harry comes so hard his legs give way completely. Malfoy holds him with an arm around his back, and strokes his cock through every shudder, caressing Harry’s balls with his fingertips.

Harry feels like a rag-doll dangling until Malfoy starts unwrapping the drapes from around his arms and eases them down, massaging the pins and needles out of them. He’s aware of the way he aches - his jaw, his shoulders and down his sides, his abdomen and his thighs. He feels like he’s been through a particularly gruelling gym session or a long run, pushing himself hard.

He feels amazing.

Malfoy sits with his back pressed to the pillar, pulling Harry against his chest. “Alright?” he asks.

Harry nods, feeling languid and limp and almost weightless. “Yeah.” It’s so good with Malfoy’s arms wrapped around him like this. He lets his head fall against Malfoy’s shoulder and drifts off with Malfoy’s hands rubbing his arms and shoulders.

Harry wakes with a start, his heart jolting in his chest. Kingsley is standing looking down at him with Hermione and Ron, both looking stressed and upset, just behind.

“What on earth are you doing up here?” Hermione breaks the awkward, tense silence in a shrill voice that Harry recognises as the one she only ever uses when he or Ron have really messed up.

“I got lost?” Harry says, distracted by the fact that Malfoy seems to have managed to clean him up and get his shirt and robes back on whilst he was still asleep, before he performed his vanishing trick.

“But why did you end up _here_?” Hermione gestures around her. “It’s not even on the same level. You can see the tables from up here.”

“Er… there were all these passageways and in the end I came up here to see if I could get my bearings.”

“And decided to have a sleep while your best friends were terrified for your safety.”

“Sorry,” he says, trying to sound contrite, even if he doesn’t mean it in the slightest.

Kingsley is grinning and Harry recalls the impression that he’d been seen earlier and squirms under his gaze.

“You see, I told you he would be quite alright,” Kingsley says. “Nothing terrible could happen at one of these events. The security is very good.”

Harry stumbles up onto his knees. Ron reaches down to help him and Harry grasps his arm thankfully.

“How did you find me?” Harry asks, trying to smooth down his robes and hoping that he doesn’t look too dishevelled.

“That waiter told us,” Hermione says. “The one you were talking to earlier." She gives Harry a sharp look.

“Oh, right.” He wishes he hadn’t asked. He knows Hermione is going to get it out of him in the end, if she hasn’t guessed already, that he’s been up here getting well and truly seen to. “That was nice of him,” he says, weakly.

Hermione looks horribly disappointed in him and he knows his number’s up. As they go back down the stairs, Kingsley in the lead, Hermione grabs his arm and hisses “You don’t even know him, Harry. You promised you’d stop doing this. You know how dangerous it is. You’re too trusting. What if he was with a paper? He could easily sell his story. The Muggle men were one thing, but this is _insanity_.”

Harry pulls his arm out of Hermione’s grasp. He knows that she has his best interests at heart, always, but he’s tired of hearing it.

“I’m going home. I’m tired. Sorry, Kingsley,” he says, turning towards what he hopes is the reception with its floo connection.

“Harry!” Hermione calls after him, but he doesn’t look back.

~*~

Harry gets changed into something less formal and goes out again. He heads for Diagon Alley, wanting to see Malfoy’s shop, finally. Even though he knows it won't be open.

Everything is closed and Harry realises he’s hardly ever seen it after closing time. There aren’t many people around, except for those wandering in the direction of Knockturn Alley’s seedier delights. Harry’s never been there. Too many bad memories from the war, even though Borgin & Burke’s is long gone.

Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes looks strange in darkness with none of the minor explosions or the whirling lights and noise. It’s amazing, really, that George is still there, still running it. He’s like a shadow left behind. He’s trying _so_ hard to carry on, but he lost his other half. The thought still chokes Harry up. He tries to control it, because following the grief comes the anger, every time. He can’t stop thinking about things he could have done differently. Things he _should_ have known that would have helped him.

And he feels betrayed by the people who did know better.

 _Fuck_.

He is not going to do this. He turns away from WWW. The Apothecary is only a few doors away, right at the entrance to Diagon Alley. It is in a prime position and, where Harry remembers it as a small dark hovel of a shop, Malfoy and his mysterious partner have transformed it. The shop front has been repainted in green and orange and gold. There is a new sign hanging above the door with the image of a cauldron and stirrer, with a snake coiled around the handle.

Harry looks in through the window, cupping his hands around his face to keep out the street light, trying to see inside. It looks empty.

“It’s a security charm.”

Harry jumps, stepping back from the window. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t doing anything.”

“I can see that, Potter. Would you like to come inside?”

Harry swallows, looking from Malfoy to the shop and back. “Why are you here?”

“I live here.” Malfoy steps forward, taking a long gold key out of his robes. It instantly cuts through all the wards that Malfoy has in place as he puts it in the lock and turns it. Harry can feel the magic disintegrating around him. It’s excellent charm work.

“It’s late,” Harry says.

Malfoy doesn’t answer, he just stands in the door, holding it open, waiting.

Harry passes him and watches as Malfoy locks the door behind him, the magic of the wards going back up in one easy motion.

“How did you do that?”

Malfoy smirks. “Magic.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, but it’s pretty advanced isn’t it? I don’t remember covering it at Hogwarts.”

“That’s because Hogwarts teaches you the basics, but if you wish to progress past turning hedgehogs into hairbrushes then you need to know what it is you wish to do: use the knowledge you have, fill in the blanks, channel your magic, connect it to the magic that exists all around us. It’s quite possible to invent your own spells.”

“And you do.” Harry feels like a total duffer. He’s always known he wasn’t in the same league as Hermione but that Malfoy is some kind of super-wizard completely floors him. “So, when you were away - where were you?”

Malfoy touches his fingertip to the side of his nose. “That would be telling, Potter.”

Harry looks around at the interior of the shop. It’s beautifully organised. There are shelves filled with rows of bottles in all the colours of the rainbow and then some. Dried ingredients in bins with scoops attached to the lids, baskets of fresh ingredients, tanks with creatures in, cauldrons of varying sizes, weights and metals, pots of stirrers. Further back, beyond the counter, Harry can see another room.

“It looks really small from the outside.”

Malfoy goes past the counter and opens the door to the back room. “The dimensions have been transcendentally altered.”

“Oh… what?” Harry hurries to follow him through. He stops on the threshold. The backroom has been turned into a laboratory that would have Snape salivating if he could see it.

“The shop interior is in a different dimension. You step through the door, you enter a different dimension, you step back out you go back to good old Diagon Alley.”

Harry gapes at him for a moment, then says. “Bollocks. I’m not stupid, Malfoy.”

Malfoy just shrugs. “It was my partner who came up with the idea.”

There is a large wooden table in the middle of the room with a network of beakers and vials connected together, various different coloured liquids gathered in the bulbs, steam rising from some of the tubes.

“What’s this?” Harry says, peering into a cauldron that’s steaming away with steady droplets of an amber liquid dripping in at evenly spaced intervals.

“I invent potions here. That’s the real reason for the business. The Apothecary is just to cover the costs.”

“So what is this one?” Harry asks.

“Not ready yet,” Malfoy replies.

Harry pulls a face. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

Malfoy stalks towards him and Harry’s heart leaps into his throat. The memories of being at one another’s throats with hexes and fists is not far from the surface. He backs into a work surface, his fingers twitching towards his wand. Malfoy moves up close, his body pressing against Harry’s, leaning across him to pick something up.

“I’ll let you know what this is,” Malfoy offers, holding up a small, familiar looking bottle with a dark potion swirling inside. “When you write with it, the writing comes to life in the reader’s mind.”

The hair on the back of Harry’s neck stands up and he shivers. “H-how does it work?” he asks.

“You take a memory and mix it in. It works with fantasies as well.”

Harry swallows hard. “Sold many of these?”

Malfoy’s mouth quirks up at the corners. “None.”

“Your - your partner wouldn’t have taken one or two to try out?”

Malfoy leans toward Harry his lips caressing Harry’s earlobe as he says in a low voice, “No, only I and one other person have used it so far.”

There is a moment that seems to hold its breath. Malfoy is pressed close enough that Harry can feel the way proximity affects him, so glad he’s not the only one. Harry licks his lips and it breaks whatever spell is over them. Malfoy kisses him deeply, holding on to Harry’s hips.

“Did you know it was me?” Harry asks, when he breaks away long enough to speak.

Malfoy is sliding his hands over Harry’s hip, under his t-shirt. “Of course not. Not until I saw you at the opera.”

Harry laughs, suddenly remembering the way he’d turned up in that memory of M’s. He presses his hands against Malfoy’s perfect arse. “That was quite presumptuous of you, I could have been there with someone else.”

“You could, that’s why I went back, to see. I needed to know.”

Malfoy reaches back and takes Harry’s hand, he leads him through to a back hallway where there is another door that presumably leads to the stockroom and there are stairs leading to the apartment above the shop.

“So, you Polyjuiced yourself, even though you knew it was me,” Harry says, with a hard note in his voice.

“Of course I did, Potter. You’re the insane bastard who is impervious to everything including bad publicity. Some of us don’t have the Ministry and a myriad of friends protecting us.”

Harry doesn’t reply. Malfoy has just led Harry into the sitting room and he’s too caught up in looking around to say anything. It’s really _nice_ \- clearly the furniture he’s chosen is antique, but it’s practical and comfortable and there’s not a hint of the hard, cold elegance of the Manor. There are several mismatched chairs that still manage to compliment one another, a low table with an ancient looking tome on top. One wall is filled with bookshelves, stacked with well worn books, a desk that sits near the window, overlooking Diagon Alley. It’s far smaller than downstairs.

He’s about to comment, but Draco is pulling him through to a small hallway with two doors leading off. One is the bathroom, the other Malfoy’s bedroom. Malfoy pushes him through into the bedroom, the lights in the room flaring to life. He presses Harry back against the wall and kisses him, stopping only to lift Harry’s t-shirt over his head, before dipping his head to kiss Harry’s chest and bite his nipples, licking the sting away.

“You know, Malfoy, there’s a bed right over there,” Harry says.

“I thought you weren’t keen on anything as mundane as a bed for sex.”

Harry snorts. “Very funny. I have nothing against beds, if they’re there.”

Malfoy whirls him round and pushes him back onto the bed, straddling Harry’s hips and rolling his own against them. “I want to fuck you.”

“That’s not news, Malfoy,” Harry says, hoping he sounds at least a little bit sexy and not entirely stupid, but if the look in Malfoy’s eyes is anything to go by he’s got nothing to worry about.

“I want to fuck you, but I don’t know if I can trust you not to scream the place down so anyone down on Diagon Alley will be able to hear you,” Malfoy says, getting up and wandering over to the window which he props open, pulling the curtains as wide as they will go. “And the neighbours of course - I hear them talking sometimes, the walls here are very thin.”

Harry pulse thrills. “Really?” he asks.

Malfoy studies him for a moment. “Perhaps I should gag you.”

Harry is breathless. “I can be quiet.”

Malfoy strips off his own clothes, folding them neatly before he turns back to Harry, who still has his jeans on, staring open mouthed at Malfoy _naked_. Completely naked. He doesn’t try to hide the mark on his arm. It’s faded now, but it’s there. Harry glances at it, but there is so much else to take in. Malfoy’s long slender body flushed with arousal, his cock standing out hard and dark and long, Harry’s brain nearly melts at the thought of having that inside him.

“I can’t fuck you with your clothes on, Potter,” Malfoy says.

His impatience cuts through the fog of Harry’s mind, he strips off his jeans throwing them on the floor. Malfoy raises one of his eyebrows and Harry thinks about getting up and folding the jeans and putting them on a chair but Malfoy straddles his hips before he can get up and that sends the thought right out of his mind.

Malfoy starts with his nipples again and works his way down. Harry arches off the bed as Malfoy takes his cock in to his mouth, deep throating.

“Jesus, Merlin, _fuck_ ,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice down. He writhes on the bed as Malfoy sucks him and drives him nearly completely mad, biting his lip and trying not to cry out, and then he feels slick fingers entering him with a pleasurable stretch and Malfoy strokes his prostate and he thinks he’s going to come, but then there’s a tight squeeze at the base of his cock. “Malfoy,” he says in an angry whisper. “Fuck me, you bastard.”

Malfoy laughs and shoves him on to his front and Harry sticks his arse up into the air. Malfoy takes a moment to kiss it before he starts pressing his cock in, sliding in with the same slickness of his fingers a moment ago, only more. Harry moans and gives himself up to the feeling.

Malfoy gives him a little slap and Harry yelps, burying his face in the pillow. The sudden sting is replaced by a warm tingle and he moans. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“You are such a noisy prick.” Malfoy says and he does it again, slapping the other cheek. He’s sliding in and out slowly, kneeling behind him. “You have a fantastic arse, Potter, I hope all those men who took you appreciated it fully.” He slaps Harry again, a little harder and he thrusts in.

Harry can’t suppress a loud moan. “Beginning to realise they were completely ungrateful,” he says, his voice getting tight.

Malfoy starts thrusting faster, keeping his hands on Harry’s hips. Harry’s cock is throbbing, leaking precome onto the covers. Harry tries to balance himself and reach between his legs, aching to touch his cock and bring himself off, but Malfoy slaps his hand away.

“Not yet, Potter,” he says, his voice rough and breathy. He’s fucking Harry harder, his hips slapping against Harry’s arse as he pushes all the way in. Harry can feel Malfoy’s magic starting to flow through him. He’s being filled with it again

“Fucking hell.” Harry pushes back to meet him and he’s rewarded with a renewed pressure against his prostate. It’s never had so much attention and it’s sending sparks through him. “Please, Draco, please, I need it.” His hand is hovering over the covers, ready for the word.

“No,” Malfoy says, and Harry pushes his head against the pillow and screams into it.

“I’m going to die, you fucking _wanker._ I’m going to fucking well explode if you don’t-fuck, oh fuckfuck, ff-fuck.” Malfoy is pounding into him now and Harry can hear the way his breath is shuddering and catching in his chest. He’s getting close. He can hear it, and there’s never been a sexier sound. It sends little thrills through him, his limbs feel twitchy. His whole body feels as if it’s throwing off sparks.

Then Malfoy presses against his back, fucking harder, reaching around Harry and wrapping his hand around Harry’s cock. “Now, Potter,” he says.

Harry thrusts into Malfoy’s hand and his whole body feels like it’s exploding outwards. He can hear something not far removed from a scream ripping from his chest and Malfoy is shuddering, jerking and pushing harder and harder inside him, his voice joining Harry’s.

They fall on the bed together, limbs tangled, Malfoy’s sweat sheened skin pressed against Harry’s, the rapid rise and fall of their chests slowing.

“Do you want to stay?” Malfoy asks after a while.

Harry leans up on one elbow, looking at Malfoy’s face. His eyes are closed, but he looks peaceful. “Yes,” he says, “I’d like to stay.”

~*~

**  
**Two Years Later**   
**

****

Harry tugs at his shirt collar. He hates dress robes, he feels like he’s being strangled by his cravat. People keep turning up and he wonders how they’re all going to fit in the church. Not that anyone seems in that much of a rush to go inside, it’s such a beautiful day. He’s hiding behind a conifer, trying to stay out of the way.

“Leave it alone.”

That tone of voice always sends a shiver through him, commanding but tender too. It makes his heart race and his stomach do flip-flops.

“You know, we’ve never fucked in a church before.”

“And we’re not going to now,” Malfoy says. “You can wait.”

Harry’s legs turn to jelly. “I can’t. I can’t stand there in front of _everyone_ with your magic in my arse - mmnph-” As he says it he feels it pulse.

“You were saying, Harry?” Malfoy smirks at him and surreptitiously slides a hand against Harry’s cock, which twitches at his touch, even though it is tightly bound, preventing any mishaps, preventing any chance of relief. 

“Please,” Harry pleads.

Malfoy just straightens his collar and cravat, smoothing his hands over the front of Harry’s shirt. “I am going to be watching, and so will everyone else. Do you think they’ll know?”

Harry feels the magic pulse again and he bites his lip on a curse. “Bastard, of course they’re going to know and I’m going to make a complete arse of myself.”

Malfoy smirks. “Have a little faith.”

“I have no faith,” Harry says.

Malfoy leans in and kisses him, a lingering kiss with just enough hint of tongue to leave Harry breathless.

They go in, Malfoy taking his seat and Harry going to sit at the front of the church, next to Ron who looks like he’s about to be sick. “Alright, mate?” Harry asks, sitting down as carefully as he can.

“No. This is a mistake. This is a really… it’s a nightmare.”

Harry looks at him, concerned. “Why? It’s Hermione. She’s, er, you know… You’ve been together since school. How scary can it be?”

Ron turns to him, eyes bloodshot, breathing hard. “You don’t understand, mate, this is the rest of my life. I’ve only ever shagged one woman, I’m never going to shag anyone else. Not unless I want my bollocks removed and used as earrings.”

Harry wrinkles his nose up at the image that conjures. “Er, I thought that was what you wanted?”

“Are you _insane_?”

“Ron, calm down. It’s going to be alright. Hermione’s the only woman you’ve ever wanted to, er, you know, sleep with. Most people just don’t get that lucky first time.”

Ron looks at him, wide eyed. “Oh,” he says. “When you put it like that.”

Just then the organ starts up, everyone stands and Harry breathes a sigh of relief. He looks toward the back of the church and his breath catches in his throat. Hermione looks almost ethereal, she looks like she’s floating and when he looks at Ron again he can see the doubt is gone.

Harry looks back at Malfoy, sitting just a few rows behind and they share a look, Malfoy’s lips quirking up in a lazy smile, Harry blushing as he struggles not to give away the fact that his arse is filled with pulsating magic.

He makes it through handing over the rings without dropping them, which he’d been _terrified_ of and all the way to the marquee at the Burrow for the reception, where he has to _make a fucking speech_ as Best Man. Then he has to sit through a number of others with Malfoy next to him, stroking Harry’s cock through his trousers, the table cloth perfectly covering what he’s doing as he casually sips his wine.

They have to stand for the toast and he knows that every eye is on the bride and groom, but still he feels like they can see him, that they’ll know. Malfoy’s hand is pressed against the small of his back, he leans across and just as they say ‘to the bride and groom’ he whispers in Harry’s ear. “They all know that you’re a filthy pervert. They’re all thinking about the Saviour of the Wizarding World with a hard on.”

Everyone cheers and Harry has to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at the timing and the sheer audacity of his brilliant lover.

He sinks down into his chair again, shaking with need. Malfoy releases the magic holding him in check and resumes his stroking and Harry leans his head on Malfoy’s shoulder. “I can’t make it through the meal,” he says, sliding his hand over Malfoy’s thigh and twisting his head to kiss that spot just behind Malfoy’s ear that he can’t resist.

“You always say that,” Malfoy says. “But you will make it.”

“I’m going to die. I’m going to die and you’ll end up with Nott.”

Malfoy gives an exaggerated shudder. “Are you trying to put me off?”

Harry runs his hand up between Malfoy’s legs and squeezes his cock. “Feels more like it turned you on,” he says, sniggering, and then moaning softly as the magic inside him pulses harder, his eyes squeezing shut as he wills himself to resist the need to come.

Malfoy kisses him and strokes his cheek, soothing him. “You’ll make it because you know I want you to. Seeing you like this, desperate and needy and begging, turns me on so much that I can hardly contain myself. You know I would love nothing more than to bend you over this table and fuck you right now.” He puts his hand over Harry’s. “You can feel what it does to me.”

Harry can only too well, and he can see it in his eyes too. “Yeah.”

He settles down again and Malfoy resumes stroking him under the table, each time bringing him right up to the edge before he stops. Harry squirming in his seat.

The sun is starting to set and Harry is trying to eat his cheesecake without letting on that Malfoy has opened his fly and has his hand inside Harry’s trousers, stroking his cock. He must be mad. He must be absolutely fucking mental. Then Malfoy tugs his hand and jerks his head towards the shed.

“I want you now,” he says, and the raw need in his voice thrills Harry.

They meet outside the shed, Harry leans against the side as Malfoy kisses him with the sort of desperate urgency that makes Harry melt.

“Was it all too much for you?” he asks, sweetly, as though he’s not feeling almost sick with need himself.

“Fuck off, Potter, or I’ll bind you up again.”

Harry shivers at the threat, knowing better than to push him when he’s like this. He shuts up.

“Seeing you, sitting there, trying to eat, trying to talk, trying not to come for me.” Malfoy has Harry’s trousers undone again, taking his cock out and stroking it until Harry is trembling all over.

“Please, Malfoy. Please let me come. I can’t…” Harry’s limbs are jerking and twitching, his breath rasping from his throat.

Malfoy tilts his chin up. “I want you to come, Harry,” he says, and kisses him deeply.

The End

**Author's Note:**

>  **Mods' Note:** If so inclined, please leave a comment here or at [LiveJournal](http://dracotops-harry.livejournal.com/275034.html). Comments are ♥.


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